Into Shadow
by Minyasta
Summary: After a long struggle to come to terms with Éowyn's tragic death, Faramir's dreams continue to haunt him each night. Although Aragorn promises to teach Faramir to control his dreams, the nightmares refuse to go away... Sequel to Shattered.
1. Without Her

Summary: After a long struggle to come to terms with Éowyn's tragic death, Faramir's dreams continue to haunt him each night. Although Aragorn promises to teach Faramir to control his dreams, the nightmares refuse to go away… Sequel to "Shattered."

Disclaimer: I do not now nor will I ever possess the brilliance that was John Ronald Reuel Tolkien's. As such, I make no claim upon the characters, plot, or non-English languages depicted here that belong to him.

* * *

_Into Shadow_

Chapter I – Without Her

The Council of Gondor was in session, and once again Faramir's mind was elsewhere. From the corner of his eye, Aragorn recognized the signs of distractedness in his Steward and felt the familiar tug of pity at his heart. Ever since Éowyn's death, Faramir had struggled to focus on even the simplest of tasks. It was the mark she had left on him, a mark that Aragorn knew no amount of healing was likely to cure. Aragorn saw, however, that the other lords were beginning to take notice of Faramir's inattentiveness. He exchanged a meaningful glance with Elphir, who then leaned over to stir Faramir.

"Faramir."

Elphir's gentle hand roused Faramir from his private thoughts, and he looked up with a frown. He had not realized that anything of importance was being said. Had his awareness wandered from him again so easily?

"Are you with us?" murmured Elphir.

Faramir shrugged his cousin's hand from his shoulder and straightened in his seat, but, much to Elphir's chagrin, he gave no answer. Faramir had always been a quiet man, but now he spoke scarcely more than a few short words in a day—only what was required to carry out his duties. Today he was worse than usual, and both Elphir and Aragorn could sense that something was amiss.

"Prince Faramir, you do not look well," observed Lord Orodreth gently. "Perhaps 'twere better if the Council were adjourned for the afternoon…?"

Faramir looked askance towards Orodreth, at a loss for words. Finally he conjured the courtesy to reply, "I am well, Lord Orodreth. Thank you for your concern."

Softly enough for only Faramir to hear, Elphir muttered, "He is right. You look pale…"

"I am no paler today than I was yesterday or the day before," Faramir quipped.

Elphir immediately silenced himself and sat back in his chair. Faramir's uncharacteristic lack of patience over the last few months since Éowyn's death continued to shock him, no matter how many times Faramir had snapped at him since the tragedy. He hated to say it, but there were certain days when Elphir began to see more of Denethor's demeanor in Faramir than he cared to acknowledge.

"I believe our business here is nearly concluded, on any account." Aragorn's eyes scanned the panel of nobility seated at the Council table before him. "Lord Glosfalath has proposed a plan to invade Khand on behalf of the Haradrim, our allies, who have suffered raids from the Variags in recent months. Unless someone intends to present a counter-argument against him, I believe this council is adjourned until tomorrow, when we shall deliberate and vote on the matter." Aragorn paused to allow any willing to stand up to debate with Glosfalath. Privately, he wished that someone would offer. He loathed to hear Glosfalath's often inflated and biased opinions go uncontested in his Council. "Anyone? No?"

The lords were beginning to make their farewells and part their own separate ways when Faramir stood from his seat bearing an expression of great weariness and tedium.

"My good Lord Glosfalath, with all due respect, it is a plan wrought of absurdity and demonstrates a total lack of consideration for the consequences of Gondor's interference in the region of Khand," said Faramir. The lords slowly fell silent and, seeming a little disgruntled, settled back down into their seats. Glosfalath's smug air fell away as the Steward spoke. Aragorn smiled.

"Firstly, the Variags are experienced warriors with a long history in the area east of Mordor. You suggest launching a frontal assault upon the borders of Khand. If this were carried out, your armies would be laid to waste within a matter of weeks. Secondly, the Haradrim are an extremely proud and territorial race. Regardless of the fact that we are their allies, they will see any interference in the area as an insult to their honor and a threat to their claim of Khand. They wish to see the heads of the Variags on their own spears, not on ours. Thirdly, the Variags have many close ties to the servants of Mordor, whom we granted the lands of Nurn to have as their own. If we engage the Variags in war, our allies within Mordor itself will be angered by our intervention and may join with the forces in Khand, losing us a valuable ally in Mordor and threatening the relative peace that has reigned there since the fall of the Barad-dûr."

Faramir gathered his sparse notes, his quill, and several books under his arm and proceeded towards the door. Before he left, he turned back and looked straight at Lord Glosfalath. "Fourthly, I personally have seen enough of death and war. Haven't you?" The door opened and closed again silently, leaving the Lords of Gondor staring in wonder and struggling to digest the counter-argument Faramir had so eloquently presented.

Aragorn rose and followed after Faramir, catching up to him several paces down the hall from the Council Chambers.

"I must thank you for speaking out as you did," said Aragorn candidly. "As usual, you managed to translate my muddled sentiments into articulate words."

Faramir waved away Aragorn's praise absentmindedly. "You speak as though I had just hypnotized a host of dragons with a speech wrought of silver tongues. My words were hardly such. It is merely common sense. Unless the rocks in their heads are as dense as those in Lord Glosfalath's, the other lords will listen."

As long as he had known Faramir, Aragorn had been continually surprised by his young Steward. Faramir was not only a soldier but also a brilliant scholar, a political genius. Yet he seemed only bored and wearied by his talent. He had said more just now before the Council than he had in the last four months together, and he appeared to be drained by it, as if it had sapped him of his energy merely to speak.

"Faramir, I wish you would not try to keep secrets from me," said Aragorn. He was striding very quickly to keep up with Faramir's brisk walk. "You are distracted, you are unfocused, and you are exhausted. What is it that weighs on your mind so? I would have you tell me, as you know I will listen."

"I know you would listen, Elessar, if there was aught for me to say."

"Elessar? When did you start calling me Elessar?" Frowning, Aragorn pivoted to stand directly in Faramir's path, stopping him in mid-step. "You need not put up a façade to placate me, Faramir. I promised you that I would help you through this, but I cannot do so if you do not come to me when you are troubled."

"I am not 'troubled,'" Faramir argued sharply. "To be forthright, I did not realize that my state of mind had become a topic of public discussion."

"Likewise, I did not realize that our friendship was defined by the nuances of public discussion," Aragorn returned, his tone sharper still. "The lords who sit back in that room may have a political agenda to fulfill by bringing up the condition of your health, but _I_ do not. Now, tell me what has been on your mind."

Embarrassed, Faramir bowed his head. "Forgive me, Aragorn… I spoke unfairly." Drawing in a deep breath, at last he began to answer his friend's questions. "Everything you have been teaching me, everything you have advised me to do… None of it is helping. I still see her face in my dreams every night. Still I am haunted by the sound of her voice… When will I know that any of it is working?"

"Faramir, I told you that this would not be easy," Aragorn replied. "Your gift has been repressed for so long that undoing the way in which your mind deals with it will take some time. I do not and cannot make any promises of how long it would take."

"Is there nothing you can do?" Faramir entreated him. "I cannot go on living like this for much longer. I barely sleep; I lie awake in the dark and wait for the morning. When I do sleep, I dream of _her_…" He turned away shook his head. "The constant fight is wearing me down. I am so tired…"

Only one remedy held even a small chance of easing Faramir's sleep, and it was one that was held in reverence among the halls of the Elvenfolk. No human had ever attempted it, and it was a process both difficult and dangerous. Yet compassion and pity for Faramir made Aragorn give it consideration, although normally he would never have done so.

"There is one thing I can try, but I cannot guarantee that it will be successful."

Faramir's face almost visibly lifted with hope. "I would be grateful for anything you can do, _mellon nin_."

"Then tonight, when you sleep, I will watch over you," Aragorn explained. "If I focus enough of my mental energy on you, I should be able to redirect your dreams so that you can sleep soundly. Depending on how much of my energy the process requires, I may or may not be successful."

"You have never done this before, then." It was a statement, not a question. Faramir's frown was dubious. "Please, Aragorn, do not risk your well-being on my account. I can manage on my own, as I have all my life."

"It is true that I have never attempted this particular process," admitted Aragorn. "But I know that it can be done, for Lord Elrond often used it to shield me from dreams in my childhood—dreams that I was not ready to see."

"What dreams?"

"Let us not speak of it."

Faramir paused. "I appreciate all that you are offering to do for me, Aragorn, but I fear that I am being unfair by asking so much. I do not wish to take advantage of our friendship for my own selfish reasons."

"Nonsense," said Aragorn. "I offered my friendship as a promise to do everything in my power to help you. If I have the ability to spare you from your dark dreams, even for one night, then I shall do so gladly."

"Is there nothing I can do for you in return?" asked Faramir.

Aragorn smiled. As unassuming as Faramir had always been, Aragorn was still surprised when the Steward behaved as though he owed Aragorn some ransom or price. "The promise of my friendship is also given without expecting anything in return."

Faramir stared calmly at Aragorn for several moments before he finally spoke again. "It is so much to ask…and yet… Will you? Even a single night's sleep without nightmares would refresh me."

Aragorn saw the fatigue behind Faramir's eyes, and all doubt faded away. "Yes, Faramir. I will do as I have said."

Faramir clapped Aragorn's shoulder in embrace and gave him a smile full of gratitude. "Thank you, my friend. It means a lot to me. Tonight, then? Well, we shall see. We shall see…" Faramir bid a respectful farewell to Aragorn before hastening down to the hall to finish his paperwork in his office. Sleep without nightmares… It was such a lovely thought that Faramir found that he was smiling to himself.

A fresh blossom of _simbelmyne _sat in a glass vase on Faramir's desk, white as snow and scented like a wind-swept plain. Éowyn's grave was covered with the beautiful flowers. It was spring now. Everything in the world seemed to be blooming fresh again, reviving the land from the cold grip of winter. The only thing that remained dead was that one part of Faramir's heart that he knew could never grow anew.

Faramir scratched at the roll of parchment with an inky quill, eager to finish the day's reports, which had become an ever more onerous task of late. His handwriting, normally a fine, flowing script, began slowly to deteriorate as his weariness took over and cramped his hand painfully. He grimaced. Age, it seemed, had caught up with him all too quickly since Éowyn's death.

His quill paused for a moment over the word "horses." He remembered when Éowyn had told him that her name in Rohirric meant "One Who Delights in Horses," during one of many conversations they enjoyed in the gardens while held prisoner within the Houses of Healing but twenty years ago. It was, she had told him, her favorite word in Elvish: _roch_. That was what the Elves had called her. Rochiel. Horse-daughter.

With grim resolution, Faramir forced himself to continue. If he lingered for too long, he would forget to go on again, and then he would never finish reading through the veritable stack of scrolls that had accumulated atop his desk for the last week. At first it was a boon that these reports were so drearily similar, requiring little differentiation to write a response to each. After a short while, however, they began to echo each other so closely that they melded into one long report, and then Faramir had to go back and check his work over again. He had confused two reports about the crops of Pinnath Gelin with one long one about the over-fishing of certain mollusks in parts of Belfalas.

A memory of his honeymoon with Éowyn flitted like a forgotten breeze into his thoughts. They had gone to Dol Amroth in Belfalas, a beautiful city on the shore where Éowyn saw the ocean for the first time in her life. Imrahil had been all too happy to accommodate his nephew and new niece-in-law. He had provided them with choice rooms in one of the towers of Dol Amroth where they had a wonderful view of the sea from the balcony and a wide, soft feather bed in their sleeping chambers.

It was more difficult this time for Faramir to shake himself back to reality. His solitude over the last four months had been almost painful, an enduring grief that did not dissipate with time. Every day he was reminded of how lonely he truly was when he woke up alone in his bed. No longer did his wife's warm presence greet him with each dawning sunrise. He was, having reached only the middle of his life, companionless and wretched.

When Elphir found him, he was staring blankly into a corner of the room, half of his work unfinished on his desk. He looked up when his cousin entered the office, then glanced down at the reports he had failed to complete. The morrow would bring only another wave of new reports to read, sign, and file; it would be impossible to catch up with it all. He was not fulfilling his duty as Steward of Gondor, but he found that somehow, quite uncharacteristically, he didn't much care.

"Faramir, perhaps you should be done for the day," Elphir suggested. "Come, dinner is about to be served. Please tell me you will not skip the meal again. It would ease my mind to see you eat something."

"I eat, Elphir," Faramir replied austerely.

"But you are so thin…"

"Perhaps that is so, but I have been ill," Faramir reminded him. Seeing his cousin's concerned frown made him feel a twinge of guilt for being so ornery.

"Will you not come with me to dinner?" Elphir tried again. "Elboron is there, and he is expecting you." Now Elphir had resorted to foul play to convince Faramir to attend the evening meal, and unfortunately it worked. Elboron had become Faramir's weak spot, the one thing that even in the present lethargy he could not refuse, and he loathed the fact that Elphir knew and took advantage of it.

"Very well, but I will not stay long," Faramir agreed. "I have not slept well lately, and I think it would do me good to retire early tonight."

Elphir's mood brightened considerably as he led Faramir to the feast hall and escorted him to his seat to Aragorn's right. Elboron sat one seat apart from Faramir. The seat between them was left empty in honor of Éowyn's memory. Though Aragorn and Eldarion tried, neither Faramir nor Elboron could be persuaded to abandon the empty seat in order to move closer to each other. It was one thing that they agreed upon firmly, and so the empty seat between them brought them closer than any shrinking physical distance could have. Faramir exchanged a polite smile with his son when he sat down, but they did not speak to each other. There was so little to say these days.

Every lord and lady in the hall observed the traditional Standing Silence, and as was his recent custom, Faramir remained standing for a moment longer than everyone else, his eyes fixed unseeing upon the western wall. The West had, in its cruel way, claimed so much of his heart over the years.

"Faramir, you may take your seat," Aragorn reminded him gently.

"Yes, I know." Faramir's voice was no louder than a murmur, and slowly, with reverence, he took his seat. "Perhaps it is only true in my mind, but without her…without Éowyn…I stand apart from everyone. I am so different now." He laughed bitterly. "So clumsy and careless. While the world goes on revolving in its slow stately march around me, I can hardly manage to stagger about like a newborn foal on unsteady feet."

"Yet it will not remain so."

"So you say."

Aragorn sought the right words before he answered, "_Chebo estel_. _Non si. Tirathon le hi dú_."

* * *

_Chebo estel. Non si. Tirathon le hi dú._

(Keep hope. I am here. I will watch over thee this night.)


	2. The Art of Dreams

Chapter II – The Art of Dreams

_"Sleep soundly, my little Estel," whispered Gilraen gently, stroking her son's soft hair. A shadow fell across the doorway, and Gilraen turned to see Elrond frowning slightly._

_"I thought I heard the boy crying," said the elf-lord softly._

_"You did," Gilraen answered, sighing. "He sees things in his dreams, my Lord. Visions of fire and shadow, of dark eyes searching for him." Gilraen gazed sternly at Elrond and saw his eyes grow wide._

_The Elven Lord hurried to sit at the beside next to Gilraen and placed his slender hand upon the young child's brow. Closing his eyes, Elrond murmured soft words in Elvish intended to find darkness hidden within a person's mind. Little Estel twitched slightly at the touch but did not seem to wake._

_"My husband was often haunted by similar dreams," Gilraen whispered. Elrond closed his eyes tighter. "What does it mean, my Lord Elrond? Can you keep the dreams from him? Can you chase them away?"_

_"Perhaps," muttered Elrond. "It is…difficult…but it has been done. Normally I would only permit such a thing for someone who has experienced too many horrors to recall in dreams and remain sane. Yet I cannot in good conscience allow the child to suffer through these dark dreams."_

_"What are they?"_

_Elrond hesitated, then sighed. "Arathorn once took council with me on the matter of his dreams. I do not understand them even now…but I believe that they may be the black memory of an even blacker spirit. The Dark Lord Sauron strove to find and destroy the Númenoreans above all others. Sauron was destroyed almost three thousand years ago, but his memory lived on in the One Ring when Isildur failed to destroy it." The bitterness in his voice was as sharp as a blade._

_Gilraen's breath caught in her throat. "I thought the One was destroyed or lost long ago!"_

_"So it is said." Elrond's face grew shadowy and troubled and with the memory of darker times in his past. "Yet the proof against this belief is too strong for me to accept it as truth." His gaze returned to the sleeping form of Estel, and he frowned. "The child's dreams are proof enough for me. Fire and shadow…searching eyes…"_

_The elf-lord shook his head. "The memory of Sauron haunts the chieftains of the Dúnedain. Somewhere the One Ring exists still, and as long as it remains the memory will not fade completely. Someone is still seeking the Dúnedain, seeking Estel."_

_"Children are not meant to see such things," said Gilraen firmly. "Will you protect him from these visions?"_

"_Yes, Gilraen. I will watch over his dreams and avert them before they can reach the boy." Elrond looked with fatherly adoration upon Estel, brushing aside a lock of his dark hair. "**Estel nin. Tirathon le hi dú**_._"_

_Elrond stood and offered his hand to Gilraen. She accepted it and allowed the elf-lord to guide her gently from her sleeping son's room. At the doorway, she looked back and mumbled a prayer, putting out the candle that stood near the door. Elrond placed his arm gently around her back, and like the whispering wind in the dead of night, they were gone._

_Estel's eyes snapped open. With a loud gasp he sat straight up in his bed, looking towards the door where his mother and Lord Elrond had stood just moments before. When he was sure that they were really gone and that he was in no danger of being discovered, Estel leapt out of his bed and hurried to relight the candle._

_He shivered in the dark as the tiny flame flickered to life. It was a good thing his mother didn't know that he had not yet fallen asleep to the sound of her voice, or he would never have found out…_

"_The Dark Lord…"_

----------------

Aragorn remembered his childhood nightmares well. Once he had grown to manhood, Lord Elrond no longer took it upon himself to protect him from the horrible dreams of seeking eyes, and he suffered with them for a long time before he learned to block them with his own willpower. Long, long years had passed since the last time Aragorn had experienced such a nightmare, and now that the Ring was destroyed forever thanks to the bravery of Frodo and Sam, Sauron's memory could no longer haunt him.

Elrond had said that normally he would only shield someone's dreams under extreme circumstances, when the dreamer may be at risk of losing his very sanity due to the severity of the horrific nightmares. He had only agreed to help Estel because he was Gilraen's son and Gilraen had asked. Why had Aragorn agreed to do the same thing for Faramir? It seemed a little foolish now, especially since Aragorn had no practice in the art of dreams, unlike Lord Elrond.

At the same time, Aragorn knew that Faramir may very well be at risk of losing his sanity if these dreams continued. His health, at least, was rapidly deteriorating the longer he suffered without sleep. Aragorn couldn't bear to lose Faramir after saving him from the first, deepest darkness after Éowyn's death. It would be too harsh a blow to him for Faramir to collapse now, when it seemed that he was making such progress along the road to recovery. He must try to help Faramir in any way that he could, and that included trying to block his nightmares.

What Aragorn was about to do had never been attempted by a Man before, as far as he knew. It was a very irrational idea, and he knew he should not think of undertaking such a task, but Faramir needed a reprieve from his endless nightmarish evenings.

"_You are sure that you wish to do this, my love?_" asked Arwen. "_Even I have never tried to interfere with another's dreams. It is a delicate art that can very easily be thrown out of balance. My father studied the practice extensively before he even considered administering to one with such dark dreams as Faramir. I do not think you should intervene._"

"_Yes, Arwen, I know_," Aragorn replied calmly. "_To be completely honest with you, I am no surer than you that this is the best choice. However, I promised that I would watch over Faramir, and so I shall. Even if it is only for this one night, I must try to help him. In four months, my sessions with him have not helped._"

"_How can you say for sure that they have not helped?_"

Aragorn frowned. "_Then they have not helped enough. Perhaps I misread the problem when I told him that his dreams were the result of his failure to use his ability of foresight. How can I know for sure that I was right?_"

"_So you would rather leap into a situation that may prove disastrous for you or Faramir because you may be wrong?_" Arwen shook her head. "_I do not approve._"

Aragorn smiled and kissed Arwen gently. "_You do not have to approve, my love._" He bade her good-night and left their chambers quickly. He had promised her that he would not keep her awake while he struggled with Faramir's dreams. He knew neither how severe these nightmares were nor how much power lay behind them. These two things would determine whether or not Aragorn was able to accomplish his goal and guard Faramir from his dreams.

A locked room in the Tower of Ecthelion proved to be the perfect place for him to spend the night. A strange, rounded stand stood in the center of the room, as if it had once been used to hold a globe or orb of some kind. The room was bare and full of cobwebs; no one had touched it in ages. Aragorn wondered at it, suddenly curious about this small, locked room. The servants were normally very good about keeping the Citadel clean, especially the Tower chambers.

Aragorn settled himself down on a thin blanket in the middle of the stone floor and steadied his mind. His will must be iron, his nerve of steel, if he was going to go through with this. No matter how bad Faramir's nightmares were, he must hold on to his focus. He must not allow himself to be distracted by fear or concern.

He breathed deep, closed his eyes, and sought for Faramir's sleeping mind…

Faramir wasn't asleep yet, and his mind recoiled at Aragorn's presence. Soon, though, he relaxed again and allowed himself to begin drifting towards sleep. It was not long before Faramir was consumed by his weariness, and Aragorn's battle began.

Intercepting dreams was a very fanciful, fantasy-like concept. Aragorn wove for himself a net of his own will and consciousness. When Faramir's mind began to conjure the beginnings of a dream, the net caught and secured them, keeping them safely away from Faramir's vulnerable mind. Once the dream was roped in, however, it drifted back in the only direction it could find to escape, towards Aragorn. The first black dream hovered towards him like a dark rain cloud, swallowing him up and plunging him into the midst of Faramir's nightmare…

_The battleground rocked beneath the monstrous, black bat-wings of the beast. Its petrifying shriek split Aragorn's ears. He was surrounded by fire and blood, and he stumbled in agony towards the motionless figure that lay near him on the ground. The figure was lying on its stomach, and Aragorn fell to his knees beside it to turn it gently over._

_Arathorn's pale, skeletal face gazed up at the sky. His lifeless body was covered in blood and mud. Aragorn gasped and turned away, nauseated by the sight of his dead father mutilated so. Another figure appeared as the mist dissipated. Aragorn fought against his body's inherent motion towards it, but he found himself beside the corpse nonetheless. This time the blue eyes of his mother, Gilraen, stared at him, glazed over and dim. Aragorn choked and sobbed, overwhelmed by grief and rage simultaneously._

_As soon as he turned away from one body, there was another waiting. Every haunted memory he had buried within his mind, every lost soul he had been unable to save, every friend he had watched fade appeared before him on the pitted battlefield. Gandalf, his flesh burned by the Balrog… Boromir, his chest pierced by black orc arrows… Éowyn…_

_Éowyn…_

_As white as a ghost and limp, dressed not in armor but in merely a pale green gown, she lay slathered in dirt, grime, and blood. Her beautiful face was contorted into a mask of pain and grief, her spirit torn brutally from her eyes._

"_Oh, Eru…" Aragorn coughed up something but managed to swallow it again. "This isn't real… It isn't real… I know it isn't real…" In the distance he could see another figure lying beneath the fiery sky and the black wings. In pain and misery, he staggered over to the body. When he saw the face, he reeled backwards in disbelief._

_It was Faramir. He wore armor, but it was rent in many places, and a puddle of crimson blood collected beneath his broken body. His raven hair was streaked with blood and sweat, and his eyes were closed. Bruises covered his face and his pale arms. Suddenly Faramir's body convulsed as he coughed up blood, and Aragorn realized that he was still alive._

"_Faramir," he whispered, leaning over his Steward's form. "Faramir, you are not gone from this world yet! It is not your time!" Then Aragorn froze and realized that he was allowing the dream to seduce him. "No! It isn't real!" he cried. Faramir moaned low and coughed again, shuddering in pain. "Faramir!" Aragorn tore his eyes away from Faramir's body and focused hard. "This ends _now_!"_

Aragorn severed the ties that bound Faramir's dream to him, and within an instant he found himself back in the small locked room in the top of the White Tower. Panting and ashen-faced, he tried desperately to get the memory of the horrid nightmare out of his mind.

"Faramir…"

He still had contact with Faramir's sleeping mind, and he could feel the rising levels of panic as the dream was rapidly transferred back to its rightful owner. Aragorn tried to wake Faramir mentally, but he felt faint from his ordeal restraining and then experiencing the nightmare. He rose shakily to his feet and hurried from the room, leaping down the staircase three steps at a time.

When he reached Faramir's room, Aragorn burst in and hurried to the bed where his Steward was shaking and sweating, pain etched in his features.

"Faramir! Faramir! Awaken!" Aragorn shouted. Faramir groaned but did not fully wake, so Aragorn seized him and smacked him sharply across the face. Faramir gasped as he woke and scrambled backwards in a panic. Only after he saw Aragorn standing beside his bed did he realize what had happened, and he collapsed back onto his pillow.

"I am sorry," said Aragorn quietly, shamefully. "I could not do as I promised. I could not protect you. The art of tampering with dreams…is one that escapes my talent. I am so sorry, Faramir. I did my best."

"I forgive you, Aragorn." Faramir gave him a weak smile and wiped the sweat out of his eyes. "I should have known…"

"Should have known what?"

"No one can help me, Aragorn. Not even you. This is something I must do alone. Oh, Eru, but I cannot!" Faramir pressed two fingers hard to his left temple, feeling the throb of a headache pounding in his head. "I give up… I give up…"

"Do not say that," said Aragorn sternly. "You must never give up."

"I have no choice, Aragorn. I am dying."

Aragorn froze and turned pale, but Faramir only closed his eyes and let out his breath in a soft sigh.

"You all see me, and you all think it. Am I the first to say so to you, Aragorn?"

"No," said Aragorn very slowly, "but you are the first to say so since that time just after Éowyn's death."

"A few short months cannot change a man's fate. I have resigned myself to that fate, Aragorn. You gave me hope when you said that you could turn away my dreams, but even that was a fantasy, I see."

"It is not a fantasy unless you give up!" Aragorn shouted angrily. "You cannot give up now, Faramir! I will not let you!" Faramir laughed. "Why are you laughing?" Aragorn demanded.

"What are you going to do?" Faramir's eyes were sad and lonely. "Will you confine me to a bubble to keep me safe from the world around me? Even that cannot protect me from dreams. Will you force me to work until I can no longer think of anything but submission to you? Will you cram food down my throat? Will you put me in solitary confinement? Will you dictate every moment of my life?" Anger flashed behind his eyes.

Aragorn paused, then said quietly, "I am not your father, Faramir."

Faramir's eyes softened. "I know," he whispered. "I know…" A slight tremor passed through Faramir's thin frame, and he turned a shade paler. "I am afraid, Aragorn. Despair is consuming me, just as it once did at the end of the War, before you rescued me. Aragorn…" He choked on his words and struggled to continue, "…I do not think you will be able to save me this time."

* * *

_Estel nin. Tirathon le hi dú_

(My Estel. I will watch over thee this night.)


	3. The Steward and the King

Chapter III – The Steward and the King

"I want you to focus, Faramir."

"I am trying!"

"No. I want you to focus…on not focusing at all."

"I—what?"

"Focus on letting go of everything that is cluttering up your mind," Aragorn directed calmly. "Your problem is that you think things must be regimented and orderly at all times, because that is what you have been taught all your life. Now you must learn to let go of the order and allow yourself to roam beyond the borders and limitations of your mind."

"I see things in patterns," Faramir argued. "Everything is in its place and there is a place for everything. The order comes naturally!"

"Then you must break it," Aragorn muttered. "You cannot receive your visions properly if you are bent on having a complete and unbreakable structure within your head. Your gift does not function that way. That is the very reason why these visions have been forced into your dreams. You lock them away in a tight corner, a part of the 'order', and then they are trapped there until they wriggle their way into your subconscious. Is that what you want?"

"Of course not," said Faramir wearily. "I will try, but I can make no promises. I do not understand what you are asking me to do."

"I am asking you to unlearn everything that you have learned."

"Unlearn everything that I have learned over the course of over fifty years. That may be more difficult for me than you realize, Aragorn." Faramir's voice broke unevenly as he spoke. Aragorn did not understand. He _liked_ having everything regimented and orderly. It was the only way that he managed to cope with the stress and the pressure of daily life as the Steward of Gondor. It was the only way that he managed to carry on without Éowyn as his support system. Everything _must_ be regimented, or else he would fall apart.

"You must try," said Aragorn encouragingly.

Faramir closed his eyes obediently. His breath hissed slowly through his teeth. He could sense the structure and the order that Aragorn wanted him to tear down. He could feel the neat, tidy arrangement of every thought and every memory. Any conscious tidbit that found its way into his mind was categorized and packed carefully into place. Aragorn wanted him to destroy it all, let loose everything that he had spent so long restraining. He hesitated.

"Faramir, you must trust me if this is to be successful," said Aragorn, detecting his friend's reluctance. "Teaching you to channel your gift properly is all I can do for you. You know that I cannot control your dreams—"

"Yes, I know," said Faramir quickly. A picture rose immediately in his mind, a picture of Aragorn standing over his bed that night. Such horror lingered in the King's eyes…such fear… Faramir was unaccustomed to seeing Aragorn so afraid, and it had unnerved him. He wished he knew what Aragorn had seen in his dream that night, but he dared not ask.

"Then close your eyes and try again," said Aragorn coaxingly. "It may help if you try centering your thoughts on a single object, devoid of sentimental value but something you know well. Once that becomes your total focus, the order will begin to fall away."

His eyes shut tight, Faramir tried to think of an object towards which he could direct his thoughts. First he thought of the _simbelmyne_ blossom that stood in the vase on his desk, but he discarded the thought quickly. Devoid of sentimental value, Aragorn had said. Something he knew well…

A feather quill sat upon his desk. Elphir had given it to him long ago as a birthday present, but he attached no real sentimental value to it. It was a fine quill, plucked from the wing of an Ithilien hawk and honed to a fine point. It was golden and brown and black, and Faramir found it easy to focus on such a mundane item. His entire being was consumed by the image of the quill; it seemed almost to have been burned onto the backs of his eyelids. All else vanished from his mind, including the regimented order of his every thought.

Faramir gasped as a quick series of images flashed through his head. _Bed. Knife. Assassin. Blood. Weeping children. Tolling bells…_ Image after image battered against his mind, beating into him the reflection of an unspeakable tragedy, a blade in the night, and an entire nation in mourning.

"Aragorn!"

Before he could even open his eyes, Faramir had fainted.

* * *

Slowly, very slowly, Faramir returned to himself. He could feel his heart beating again, and a large bruise had formed at the back of his head. What had happened? Where was he? This was not his office… After a few moments he realized that he was lying on his back on a soft bed in the Houses of Healing. Two figures stood in the far corner, muttering to each other. One of them wore a crown…

"Aragorn!" cried Faramir, sitting straight up in the bed. The instant he did so, he felt the pain in his head hit him like a brick, and he collapsed back onto the bed. The two figures hurried to his side. One of them was a healer and the other was, of course, the King.

"Faramir, you need to calm yourself," said Aragorn. "If you push yourself too hard, you may lose consciousness again."

"Aragorn, I must tell you what I have seen!" The healer was trying force something wet and slippery down his throat, but Faramir resisted.

"It can wait." Aragorn's voice was gentle, almost apologetic, as if he felt guilty for somehow causing Faramir to pass out. "Do as the healers tell you, Faramir."

"No! It cannot wait!" Faramir shoved the healer's vial away from his lips. "Aragorn, someone is going to try to kill you or the Queen! Someone…someone…!" He squeezed his eyes shut, trying desperately to get back the feeling of _knowing_ what was going to happen. The certainty had now faded into a dim memory, leaving only speculation.

"Why must I see such horrid things?" Faramir clutched his head in his shaking hands. "Why does nothing good come of this gift? Why won't it leave me alone? It only haunts me! I can see only death! Why death?"

"Faramir." Aragorn pulled Faramir's hands away from his head, but the Steward could not stop shaking. "Tell me what you saw. Tell me _exactly_ what you saw."

"I saw…I saw…" Faramir shook his head. "I am not sure anymore! I saw…a knife. A knife in the hand of a killer… An assassin, I think. A little girl crying…the bells in the Tower ringing frantically… That is all I can remember, Aragorn. They are only disjointed images burned into my memory. When I saw them, I was so sure… I _knew_ what was going to happen. Now I cannot…I can no longer feel…"

"Faramir, do not hide anything from me," said Aragorn sternly. "If my life or the Queen's is at stake, I must know everything. Did you see Arwen and me in the dream?"

Faramir paused. "No. No, I did not see you…but I saw a country mourning the death, a dark ceremony befitting a king or a prince… I have no way of being sure, but I am almost certain that the threat was to you or the Queen. There was blood spilt." He shivered. "Royal blood."

"What else? Could it have been Eldarion?"

"I have told you all that I know," said Faramir miserably. "I cannot remember more."

"You _must_ remember more!" snapped Aragorn.

"I cannot!" cried Faramir, withdrawing in fear from the intensity of Aragorn's eyes. "I cannot remember, Aragorn! I am sorry, but I do not know! I only know that someone is going to die, and now it is going to be all my fault because I saw it and could not stop it!" Faramir turned his head away and shuddered, feeling a black wave of guilt and helplessness wash over him.

The fire in Aragorn's eyes softened when he saw how pale Faramir had become. He was being unreasonable and unfair to his Steward. It was not Faramir's fault that he could not remember everything, and Faramir was not to blame for any harm that befell him or Arwen.

"Faramir, I am sorry," he said gently. "It is not your fault."

"It is the duty of the Steward before all else to protect his liege," Faramir recited flatly. "To ensure the upholding of the honor of the King of Gondor and the continuing health and happiness of the Royal Family." He released a broken sigh from the pit of his roiling stomach, suddenly feeling faint again. His greatest fear was beginning to rear its head, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

"That is what you have done," Aragorn assured him. "Do not question yourself. You have no reason to doubt that you have performed your duties."

"Oh?" Faramir took the vial from the healer and swilled it down in one quick gulp. The slimy contents stuck to his throat, making the vile taste linger in his mouth. A slight twitch started in one cheek, but it soon faded along with the bad taste and his feeling of lightheadedness.

"You may go now, if you wish, my Lord," said the healer briskly. "Be careful of the bump on your head, though. You've got an awful bruise there now, from when you hit your head falling. Mind you don't irritate it, and I would like to see you again in two days' time." The healer bowed as Faramir thanked him and rose from the cot. With Aragorn helping to steady him, Faramir walked quickly from the room and towards the exit of the Houses of Healing, eager to leave this place which was full of horrifying and painful memories for him.

"Just a moment, Faramir," said Aragorn, touching him lightly on the shoulder. "I would speak with you here, before we return to the Citadel."

Faramir felt a painful twinge just looking around him, but he nodded silently and allowed the King to steer him in the direction of the gardens. This place more than most was full of memories that he wished he could forget. Just there, beneath that overhanging willow tree, was where he and Éowyn had sat and talked for many hours each day as they awaited the return of the Host of the West. There, just on that creaking wooden bench, was where they had grieved the death of their infant son Adrahil. Upon the wall, just there where the sun was shining through the dappled leaves, was where he had first seen the White Lady of Rohan marching dutifully towards him with the Warden at her side. How gorgeous she had appeared on that day… How beautiful, and how sad…

"Faramir, have I ever given you reason to believe that you do your duty poorly?" asked Aragorn. His tone was fretful and worried, as though he feared that the answer to his question would be 'yes'.

Faramir hesitated before answering, still caught up in the memories that flew through his mind as they walked the paths of the gardens. "No, my liege," he said finally, murmuring softly beneath his breath. "You have never done so."

"Perhaps I am wrong, but you seem so…hesitant now. As if you are not always sure that you are dong the right thing." Aragorn frowned. "I do not want my Steward feeling that his work his questioned. You know that I always approve of your decisions, and your counsel is always thoughtful and wise."

Faramir sighed. "I know. It is not your fault that I feel my work is questioned."

"Then I am right," said Aragorn quickly. "You are hesitant. But why, Faramir? What reason have you for doubting yourself now?"

"May we sit?" asked Faramir suddenly, feeling the lightheadedness returning again. "I'm afraid I don't feel very well."

"Should I summon a healer?" Aragorn asked, guiding his friend towards a seat upon a stone ledge near the wall.

Faramir shook his head. "It will pass shortly, I am sure." Nevertheless, after nearly a quarter of an hour sitting he felt no better. The glow of the sun felt hot against his sickly pale skin, and it added queasiness to the dizzy feeling in his head.

"In what way do you not feel well, Faramir?" asked Aragorn, as if he were asking his young daughters the question.

"Everything seems to be spinning," mumbled Faramir. "I cannot pin anything down. It is like constant vertigo that I cannot control."

"Lack of sleep will do that to you," Aragorn observed worriedly. "I wish I could do more to help you with your dreams…"

"As you cannot, I would not concern yourself with it."

"I am always concerned for the health of my Steward. When you are unwell, Gondor suffers, just as when I am unwell."

"And I am unwell so often." Faramir wiped a hand over his eyes. "I am a poor choice for the position…"

"You are my choice for the position, and I deem you to be the best qualified for it," Aragorn reminded him.

"I am not the man I once was, Aragorn." Tears shimmered on the verge of spilling over in Faramir's eyes. "I am not fulfilling my duty the way I should be. I'm not fit for the position. I don't deserve it. I can no longer keep my mind focused in the meetings, my reports are rambling and pointless, and worse than all this is that I don't even care. Any of the other lords on the Council would be better suited to be your Steward, Elessar."

"None of the other lords have your wit or your intelligence or your patience or your commitment," said Aragorn fiercely. "I do not want any other lord as my Steward, Faramir."

"I do not want to be your Steward."

Stunned, Aragorn could find no words to speak.

"I cannot do this. It is too much. These nightmares are changing me into something that I do not want to be, into a person who cannot be the Steward of Gondor." Faramir faltered, struggling to say what was hardest to say. "I am sorry. I-I must resign, Aragorn. I must step down from my position. I do not want to, but I must. I am failing you and Gondor by trying to keep up with my duty when I know that I cannot."

"Faramir, you do not know what you are saying," said Aragorn gruffly.

Faramir laughed lightly, closing his eyes. "Yes, I do. For once, Aragorn, I know exactly what I am saying, and I know that this must be done. It is the only way. I must do what is right for Gondor, not for myself."

"It is up to me to decide what is right for Gondor, and I wish no other man to sit beside me as Steward of my realm!" Aragorn cried.

"Your judgment on this matter is blurred by our friendship," said Faramir. "You know in your heart was is right, yet you would have it otherwise because you hate to see me like this, to the point where I must resign. No, Aragorn. I must do the right thing. It hurts so much… It is so hard for me to struggle with the tasks you give to me, easy tasks yet beyond what I can cope with now. The only difference four months has made is that now I can separate the truth from the dreams, but it is destroying me. I am like meal caught between grindstones, gradually being worn down into finer powder until there is nothing left but what can be blown away by the gentlest breeze. You cannot have a man like me as your Steward."

"It is my will to have a man like you as my Steward! I care not what the other lords say, or what Gondor says! You are the only man who can do your job as well as you do, Faramir! You are a brilliant man who is unafraid to stand up to the most arrogant of lords and tell them that they are wrong to their faces! You have the ability to solve problems as if it were no more difficult than drawing a breath!"

Faramir smiled weakly. "Yet drawing a breath has become so much harder for me of late."

Aragorn paused, realizing that Faramir had turned his metaphor around and shot it right back at him. "Faramir…I want you as my Steward. I will not let the other lords change my opinion of you."

Faramir rose and began walking back towards the Houses of Healing. "You cannot stop me from resigning, Aragorn."

"Faramir…"

Faramir paused for only a moment. "I am sorry, my friend. For once I cannot do as you ask of me. You must find a new Steward now."

* * *

Author's Note: This chapter title ("The Steward and the King") was taken directly from _The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King_, Book VI, Chapter 5: The Steward and the King. 


	4. ‘Onon fëa nin le’

Chapter IV – 'Onon fëa nin le.'

Faramir was alone in the darkness of his room. It must have been just before dawn, but he had not shut his eyes all night. This time it was not nightmares that kept him awake, but regret. How could he resign from his position? His family had been the Stewards of Gondor for as long as the position had existed! Their line had never failed! Yet now he was surrendering it willingly? He could just imagine what his father would say, were Denethor still alive.

_"You never learned to take what is rightfully yours! You are a coward, weak, pitiful! I should never have trusted the inheritance of the White Rod to you! What an heir I have been cursed with! Boromir would never have surrendered the Stewardship! Boromir would have carried on the line of my fathers until death, as is our right! Would indeed that your places had been exchanged! Whelp! Curse you and curse the moment you were born as my son!"_

Faramir shivered. In the darkness he could almost feel his father's hard eyes piercing him, blaming him for his judgment while loathing the very sight of him. As long as those eyes were set scornfully upon him, he was filled with the all-too-keen knowledge of his inferiority, his ineptitude, his inadequacy as his father's son. It had taken him so long to convince himself that he would be able to act as Steward of Gondor as well as Boromir would have, and now all of that doubt returned to him. He had failed. As hard as he had tried, in the end he had failed, just as his father had predicted.

"Would indeed that our places had been exchanged," whispered Faramir, squeezing his eyes shut tight against the darkness that surrounded him. "Would that I had died and Boromir had lived…"

They had always known that Boromir would become the Steward upon Denethor's death, and Faramir would become his chief advisor, Captain-General of Gondor, and High-Warden of the White Tower. Boromir would rule Gondor, and Faramir would stand in the shadows just behind him. They had often spoken of it, of the glory they would bring to Gondor, of the peace that would reign during Boromir's rule.

Had Faramir died, that peace could still have existed. King Elessar would rule as the sovereign of Gondor, of course, but Boromir would have taken up his place as Steward and helped to govern the country justly and wisely. Boromir would never have fallen into this terrible darkness as Faramir had. Boromir was not plagued by visions and dreams that either foretold the horrors of the future or relived the horrors of the past. Boromir would never have resigned from the Stewardship, and the memory of Denethor's spirit would approve of all that he did.

Faramir tossed restlessly in his bed, seeking a comfortable spot but finding none. Even if he could manage to fall asleep, he knew that he would be haunted by his nightmares, tormented by the sight of his beautiful wife's face…

He closed his eyes and wept silently, his shoulders shaking with the effort of repressing his sobs. Éowyn…Éowyn…his beautiful wife… If he had been able to save her, none of this would have happened! If he had known then how to control his visions, could he not have foreseen the trouble with the birthing and insisted that Aragorn be present? Could the King not have saved her, as he had saved countless others? Alas! that only now did Faramir realize the true potential of his gift! If only he had known! If only he had not held it back all these years! He could have saved her. She could still be alive.

Trying desperately to calm himself, Faramir rose from his bed and moved to the fireplace where a kettle of water was being kept warm by the smoldering ashes. He poured some water into the basin sitting on a low table nearby and splashed the tepid water on his face. It was enough to clear away the sharpest pangs of alarm, but the deep throb of guilt remained. He stood over the basin, breathing heavily, remembering a time when Éowyn had always been there to chase away his anxiety and his fears.

'Hush, my love,' she would say, guiding him gently to a seat on the edge of their bed. 'You fret over such trivial matters! Do not let them be worrisome. There is always a new day to deal with such petty worries.' She would caress his cheek and whisper kind words and massage his tense shoulders with her gentle fingers. His troubles all seemed to melt away at her touch, and nothing in the world seemed wrong.

"Oh, Éowyn…my Éowyn…" Faramir dried his face and turned away from the basin, tired of seeing his own reflection without Éowyn's behind it. "How cruel of you! To leave me here, a widower of only fifty-five years, doomed to a fate of longevity here within the circles of the world… I must now live perhaps half my life without you beside me. Oh, Éowyn…" He closed his eyes. "Such short years did I have with you, no more than twenty. By what sin did I earn such a fate?"

He put one hand to his heart, as if his pain was physical as well as emotional. It was becoming a subconscious gesture of his, a habit that he could not and did not want to break. It invariably brought up the question of his health when he was in the company of others, but alone it served only as a reminder of his personal grief and the sense of complete hopelessness which pervaded his dreams.

Faramir had long since accepted the fact that he would probably not live to see his next birthday. If his grief did not kill him, the illnesses brought on by his sleepless nights would. Was it possible, he wondered, to die of exhaustion? Yes, no doubt it was.

Aragorn, though, seemed to refuse to accept this truth. Always did he keep his hope as his childhood name, Estel, suggested. Faramir tried very hard to do as Aragorn told him, to hope and to love and to anticipate a brighter future, but these nightmares…

"Oh, Eru, these nightmares…" Faramir shook his head and drew his breaths shallowly. "Such carnage and death and blood… It is as if I am a soldier again!" He shuddered at the thought, remembering all too well the long years he had spent in Gondor's frontlines, the fighting in Osgiliath, the skirmishes in Ithilien, and finally that last push to retake the River and the Pelennor as his father demanded. He felt as close to death now as he had then, living from day to day without knowing what would befall him the next moment, doubting himself and yet pushing himself harder and harder to keep up the fight.

That was why he must resign. The harder he pushed himself, the angrier and the more frustrated and bitter he became. He would rather surrender the Stewardship than allow himself to turn into the man he saw himself becoming. He was haunted by an image of himself, greying, lonely, and above all angry, sitting upon his Steward's chair in his dotage and making rash judgments, forsaking Gondor, and losing all friendships he had once held. It was the last image that Faramir had of his father, and it was what he saw himself becoming if he continued down this path.

Denethor had known that he would turn cold and bitter if he continued to cling to his duties as Steward, and yet he clung because of the honor of his ancestors that he felt he must uphold. He had worn himself down, hardened by grief and pain, until there was nothing left but an empty shell of a man, incapable of love except for his elder son. Even that tiny bit of love died with the passing of Boromir, and he was driven to madness and suicide. Faramir could not allow himself to follow in those footsteps. If he continued to strain to hold on to his position, he would sure fall, and he would lose all sense of the man he had once been.

Yes, he must resign.

Aragorn did not understand, he knew. Aragorn could see it only from the political stand point. He saw the fact that Faramir was brilliant at what he did and that his wisdom on the Council was surpassed by none. He saw that Faramir's talent lay in the political and scholarly realm of the Stewardship, and so he could see no reason why Faramir should not follow his heart's desire and remain the Steward of Gondor. He could not understand that the stress of Faramir's responsibilities would warp him into a man that he had vowed long ago he would never become. He could not see that Faramir was changing slowly, becoming the very thing he feared to become.

It ended now. Faramir would let it go no further.

"Elboron will be angry…" Faramir whispered into the dark, sitting down in a soft chair by the fireplace. "If I resign…he will never forgive me for denying him his rightful inheritance…" He shook his head and took a deep breath. "But there is no other way. If I am truly to die…then I will die as myself, not as the man I swore I would not follow. I will die as Faramir. Not as Steward Faramir, maybe. Perhaps not even as Lord or Prince Faramir. But Faramir I will remain, nonetheless…"

Faramir knew that he was a good Steward. He knew that he did his job better than any other lord on the Council could have. But he also knew one thing more, which Aragorn did not grasp. _"When you are unwell, Gondor suffers, just as when I am unwell,"_ Aragorn had said. What he failed to see was the fact that if Faramir allowed himself to turn into his father, Gondor would suffer just as it had under Denethor's rule.

"It is right for Gondor that I should resign," he told himself softly. "They will find a new Steward, perhaps a better Steward. Then there shall be peace in Gondor, and when I die there shall be no debate over who the rightful successor of the Steward should be."

And his children? Elboron and Nimhiril? What would happen to them? Faramir massaged his temples with the palms of his hands, trying to think through his splitting headache. Elboron was quite nearly a man now, capable of taking care of himself, but Nimhiril was still only four months old and scarcely able to do more than cry when she was sad and smile when she was merry. Pain and guilt welled up in Faramir's chest, not for the first time. Would Nimhiril be forced to grow up without knowing either of her parents? Faramir could ask Aragorn and Arwen to take the babe when he died, but it was not the same as having two healthy, loving parents who had created her and now took care of her.

For the hundredth time, Faramir wished that the babe had died with Éowyn. It was not out of cruelty or selfishness that he wished this, for he loved his little girl more than the sun loved to shine on daisies in the summertime. Éowyn had given everything to bring her into the world, and she was the most beautiful baby girl Faramir had ever seen. Still, would not death be better than this, being born to a dead mother and a dying father? Faramir feared for her more than he had ever feared for any living being.

"Eru, all I want is to be a father to my two children," he sobbed, burying his face in his hands. "You have already taken their mother. Is that not enough? Why must you force me through this ordeal, pushing me towards exhaustion and death? Is it so much to ask for a little relief from the pain? For a little happiness? Can I not live for a few moments in peace with myself and my wife's memory, or must you continue to persecute me so?

"If I have committed some heresy against your will, please, I beg of you, tell me what it is!" he pleaded. "I will do anything to atone for my sins, if this torment will be taken from me! I will endure any amount of physical pain if these visions and nightmares will cease!" Faramir looked out his window into the clear spring sky, where tiny white stars glistened in the inky black sky.

"I know that there are many to listen to, but hear my prayer this night, if not for my sake then for the sake of my children." He bowed his head, tears still streaking down his cheeks. "Thy will be done, Lord. _Galadthoniel, chebo orë nin mān a tiro amarth nin palanello hi dú. Onon fëa nin le_. _Nai_."

* * *

_Galadthoniel, chebo orë nin mān a tiro amarth nin palanello hi dú. Onon fëa nin le. Nai._

(Light-kindler, keep my heart well and watch over my fate from afar this night. I give my spirit to thee. May it be so.)

Author's Note: Alright, I confess. This Elvish is mostly Sindarin, but it does have some Quenya words mixed in. Tolkien himself said once that it was permissible to combine Quenya and Sindarin elements, so I don't feel _too_ badly about it. Also, I used the word "Nai" as a substitute for "Amen". In Hebrew, "Amen" means "truthfully" or "so be it", and I found "Nai" to be the closest substitute as it means "may it be" or "may it be so".


	5. Steward of Gondor No More

Chapter V – Steward of Gondor No More

Elphir smiled at Faramir when he entered the Council chambers. Faramir looked away quickly. Elphir did not know yet. None of them knew yet.

"Faramir, you look dreadful," Aragorn murmured worriedly. "You are not yourself this morning. Did you sleep at all last night?"

"No. I could not." Faramir sighed and tried to straighten himself to appear more lordly. Regardless of how he struggled to stay alert and at attention, he found that his shoulders continually slouched, his head constantly fell forward, and his eyes flickered shut and open sleepily. He was nearly on the verge of falling asleep at the Council table. If the other lords stared at him, he did not even notice their scrutiny.

"Were you troubled by your nightmares again?" Aragorn asked.

Faramir shook his head silently, and Aragorn knew better than to press the matter. The King called the Council to order and began the long process of reviewing all that they had done at the last Council. It took nearly a half an hour to summarize those matters, then another half an hour to lay out a course of how they would cover those issues during this Council, then another quarter of an hour to discuss any new topics which the lords felt should be addressed.

The primary issue was, naturally, Lord Glosfalath's preposterous idea to invade Khand on behalf of the Haradrim. Today was the day when the Council was to vote on the matter, but first there would be a long, painful series of arguments and counterarguments for and against the plan. Lord Glosfalath began with a reinforcing of the solid strategy that he was sure his plan embodied.

"We have been difficult friends with the Haradrim ever since the War," he argued. "Four months ago we gave them the generous gift of South Gondor, a land which has long been debated and fought over. However, they still do not trust us because of the alliance and long-lasting friendship which we retain with the inhabitants of Nurn, who, as Prince Faramir has pointed out, are close brethren with the Variags! The Haradrim will not be our full allies until we assist them in their coming war against the warriors of Khand and prove to them that our loyalty is true."

The instant Glosfalath sat down, Lord Damrod stood up. Faramir eyed Lord Damrod with a frown, uncertain of which side the young lord would take. Damrod was the youngest son of Lord Duinhir who, along with both of his elder sons, had perished in the Battle of the Pelennor Fields. Faramir had held a great distaste for Lord Duinhir, and his offspring, since childhood. The distrust was mutual, but Faramir's was better justified. He had had a bad encounter with Duinhir and his sons that left him with permanent physical scars that still irked him whenever he looked upon Lord Damrod.

"I agree with Lord Glosfalath," said Damrod in his low, droning voice. "An alliance with the Haradrim is far more valuable to us than an alliance with the Variags and the inhabitants of Nurn. Harad would be a more powerful ally, and its lands lie closer to Gondor than those of Khand or Nurn, creating a greater threat if Harad were to turn against us." He took a moment to cough lightly in his infuriatingly dull fashion and then continued. "I suggest that we not only follow Lord Glosfalath's plan for the invasion of Khand, but that we also simultaneously invade Nurn and eliminate the possibility of their forces joining the Variags."

"I concur!" declared Lord Glosfalath in delight.

Elphir stood up abruptly, tense and angry. "And how do you propose to do that? I do not doubt the strength of Gondor's army, but even now, a score of years later, we are still recovering from decimating losses that we suffered during the War of the Ring! We do not have the might to strike forcefully in two places at once, never mind to conduct a successful campaign over a span of such leagues! Your suggestion would stretch our armies far too thin, and the Variags would quickly take advantage of that."

"You are forgetting to take into account the forces of the Haradrim which will be supporting our armies," Lord Forlong II interjected arrogantly. "Their warriors have a good knowledge of the region and will double the striking power of our men. With the Haradrim as our allies, we cannot lose against the Variags!"

"Wrong," said Lord Dervorin sharply. "Did you not hear what Prince Faramir said of the Haradrim's pride? If we interfere in their conflict, they will not fight with us, but against us! If we make hasty decisions and rush into a war before consulting the diplomats of Harad, we may found ourselves fighting a war against two enemies with no allies at all!"

"Prince Faramir overlooked the fact that the Haradrim have already promised to aid us in any of our military campaigns," sneered Glosfalath.

"It is not _our_ military campaign!" cried Elphir. "This war is the Haradrim's right! I say we leave them alone unless they purposefully request our aid!"

"By then it may be too late to organize a proper invasion!" said Lord Damrod brusquely. "Any act of our armies constitutes a military campaign of Gondor, and as such the Haradrim are obliged to assist us! If we engage the Variags, it is our war, not theirs!"

"Then we are stealing their war!" exclaimed Lord Orodreth, pounding his fist on the table.

The lords broke down into heated bickering, leaning across the table, shaking fists, and shouting at each other. Faramir covered his face in his hands, overwhelmed by the angry voices surrounding him.

"I have to resign…" he whispered, shaking his head slightly. "I have to resign… I can't deal with this anymore…"

Aragorn noticed his Steward's distress and called the lords to order immediately. Faramir was shaking and pale, and his eyes seemed almost devoid of emotion. Aragorn was worried, but he knew that he would only embarrass Faramir if he brought attention to it.

"We are civilized men," said Aragorn sternly. "We will speak one at a time, listen carefully to the arguments of one another, and then take turns offering counterarguments. Is that quite understood?" His sharp gaze fixed itself one by one on each lord, and they all nodded. "Good. Then we may continue."

The lords hesitated, unsure of who had been speaking last. Finally Lord Glosfalath looked towards Faramir and snorted.

"Why doesn't our Steward say something," he said harshly, "since he was so vehemently against the idea at our last meeting."

Faramir closed his eyes and forced himself back to the matter at hand before standing to address the Council.

"Lord Glosfalath and his supporters have made good arguments," he began politely. "However, I refuse to sanction any military action on Gondor's part. Not only would we be violating time-honored traditions of Harad, but we would also be thrusting ourselves back into an atmosphere of warfare that I do not wish Gondor to reenter. When the War of the Ring ended, it was to be the war to end all wars, and peace was to rule Middle-earth from that day forward. Will you now destroy that peace for the sake of mere politics? Will you send fathers and sons and brothers to fight and to die for a cause that is not ours to fight for? Do your interests truly lie in assisting our allies the Haradrim, or rather in the profits that may be reaped from a war in Khand?" He settled his eyes on Lord Glosfalath, who stood up rigidly.

"Are you implying something, Prince?" Glosfalath raised one eyebrow skeptically. The chambers fell deathly silent. Aragorn looked on curiously, wondering where his Steward could possibly be going with this.

"Yes, Lord Glosfalath, I am," said Faramir calmly. He put out a hand to steady himself on the table as a bout of dizziness took him. "Although it is little known to most, one may find indicative markings on old maps of the region of Khand. In the southern arm of the Ephel Dûath, as far east as the range stretches, there can be found old veins of mithril running through the mountains of which even the Variags are not aware to this day. Now, it could be that Lord Glosfalath's only intention is to send aid to the Haradrim in their conflict with the Variags, or it could be that by invading Khand he hopes to capture these mithril veins and keep a large portion of the profit for himself."

Surprise permeated the room like a foul stench, and Glosfalath's face grew dark with a combination of anger and hatred. Faramir almost failed to keep eye contact, but he forced himself to remain firm.

"This is ludicrous," snarled Glosfalath. Faramir continued, refusing to back down.

"Those of you who believed that Lord Glosfalath is driven by admirable motivations, I tell you now that you are mistaken, for you have been fooled. There is no doubt in my mind that Lord Glosfalath was very much aware of the mithril veins when he first suggested this campaign." Faramir sighed softly and took his seat. "Now that you are aware of his true objectives, I suggest that you remove your support from his plan."

For many long minutes, the assembly sat in silence. There was nothing more to be said. It was clear by the look in Glosfalath's eyes that Faramir spoke the truth about the mithril, but more frightening than this was the fact that few of the lords seemed moved by the sudden exposure of Glosfalath's selfishness! Finally Aragorn stood, and Faramir shifted uneasily in his seat.

"If that is all, then I believe we are prepared to vote," said the King solemnly. Faramir let his breath out in a hiss. He knew that Aragorn was not allowed to speak during the discussion before a vote because his opinion as King could have too great an influence on the outcome, but he wished that Aragorn would say something all the same. Faramir had tried to speak as he thought Aragorn would have. That was the best he could do. That was the Steward's job.

It suddenly occurred to him that if he resigned and someone like Glosfalath was elected as the new Steward, the balance of the Council would be completely overturned! But no, he thought. Aragorn would never allow such a thing to happen.

Most votes were taken by a mere show of hands, but this time Aragorn requested that they write their vote on a slip of parchment before handing them all up. This vote was too crucial to compromise those who voted one way or the other. Faramir thought back to the debate and tried to remember who had argued for their side. He could count on his own vote, Aragorn's, Elphir's, Dervorin's, and Orodreth's. Even one or two of the other lords who had not spoken appeared to have been convinced when Faramir spoke of the mithril veins in Khand. Unless he was mistaken, the vote would tip in their favor!

Aragorn collected the slips, and all of the lords stood to hear the decision of the vote… Faramir found himself holding his breath. The King unfolded them and read each one by one.

"Against. Against. Against," Aragorn read. Faramir began to relax until he saw Aragorn frown. "For. For. For. For."

What? How could so many lords have sided with Glosfalath after learned about the greed that motivated him? Faramir tried not to panic. There were still four votes left…

"Against."

Hope lit again. They needed only two more votes against Glosfalath's plan…

"For. For. For."

Shock hit Faramir like a physical blow. He rocked back on his heels and collapsed in agony to his chair. How was this possible? It couldn't be true! They had lost with only four out of eleven votes! But how? With himself, Orodreth, Dervorin, Elphir, and Aragorn, he had been sure that they would take at least five! Someone had changed their argument when they voted! Faramir cast his gaze around the table, and his eyes caught on Orodreth's face. It was full of guilt.

Faramir strained to keep himself from breaking down in tears. They had lost. They had lost. They were going to war… Aragorn was saying something, probably something important, but Faramir could not hear him. In twenty years, this was the first time that Faramir had failed to turn a vote in their favor if he addressed the Council. How could he not have seen it, the greed that glinted in all of their eyes? His declaration of Glosfalath's malicious, selfish intent had not made them furious but eager! They wanted a share of the mithril themselves! How could he be so blind?

"Faramir," Elphir whispered haltingly. Faramir ignored him and began packing up his things with the slow deliberateness of one who is trying desperately not to lose his self-control. "Faramir, the King is speaking to you."

Faramir turned to see Aragorn's sad eyes fixed on him. He realized with a jolt that the entire Council was staring at him expectantly.

"I have asked you to inform the lords of your decision, Faramir," Aragorn murmured. A leap of anxiety flitted through Faramir's heart. He looked back towards Elphir and saw his cousin's concern; he was patiently awaiting what Faramir had to say, not knowing that it would probably break his heart.

"I-I have decided that I must resign from my office," said Faramir, pronouncing each word as though it was his last. A wave of shock rippled though the Council. Elphir was so taken aback that his mouth hung open in disbelief and he shook his head slowly from side to side. Faramir looked back down at his work and continued getting it in order, as if nothing had happened.

"Prince Faramir, you cannot resign!" cried Dervorin. "What shall become of the Stewardship? Your Princedom?"

"The Stewardship shall pass to whichever man King Elessar appoints," said Faramir wearily. "I have his Majesty's leave," he nodded respectfully towards Aragorn, "to retain my Princedom in Ithilien and my Lordship of Emyn Arnen."

The eyes of every lord was fixed on him. It hit him only now how deep their respect for him was, how many of them looked to him for guidance on the Council. Suddenly he hated them. Each and every one of them. They were not noble or honorable. They had no dignity. They would surrender the peace of Gondor for the sake of mithril, and he hated them for it.

"Please excuse me," he mumbled curtly before heading for the door. Lord Glosfalath edged backwards just enough to tip over his chair in Faramir's path, and Faramir closed his eyes to stop all of his anger and pain from pouring out at once.

"Pardon me, Prince Faramir," snickered Glosfalath as he righted his chair. He bowed politely and offered his hand to Faramir, but every movement of his was full of such a mocking air that Faramir was sickened by it. Faramir shook Glosfalath's hand in as gentlemanly a fashion as he could manage and moved towards the door quickly, but not before he heard Glosfalath mutter derisively, "You will be missed."

Outside the Council chambers, Faramir released a shuddering sob that he could not hold back any longer. There was no doubt in his mind that he must resign. He was not the brilliant politician Aragorn made him out to be. He was not a diplomatic mastermind. His failure to see past the lords' facades, to see the insatiable greed that lay beneath, had resulted in a fatal mistake which would now cost thousands of Gondorian men their lives. The burden of guilt was so heavy… He feared that if he carried it much longer it would truly break him.

"Faramir?"

Faramir closed his eyes. His cousin's voice was laced with such sorrow and pain that he could almost not bear to hear it.

"Faramir, how can you resign?" Elphir closed the door to the Council chambers quietly. He was as close to tears as Faramir had ever seen him. "Gondor needs you as our Steward. How can you turn your back on—"

"I am not turning my back on anything," said Faramir, looking away. "Did you see what happened in there? Did you see the mistakes I made? How could I not have _seen _it, Elphir? How could I not have predicted…? There was a time when I would never have missed something so obvious! I am no longer worthy of my office."

"You are too hard on yourself," said Elphir sharply. "You cannot expect yourself to be perfect. You have always tried so hard to be perfect, when all you ever have to do is do your best! You had no way of knowing that those mithril-hungry bastards would side with Glosfalath! No one has the right to expect you to know!"

Faramir was slightly surprised. He had not heard his cousin curse since they were soldiers together during the War of the Ring.

"One vote is not the end of this, Faramir. Do you think Elessar would leave such an enormous decision to a single vote? He can override the Council if he chooses and simply deny Glosfalath's proposal completely!"

"He will not because he fears that overriding too many of their decisions will lead to a revolt," Faramir snapped. "He was already forced to override them when he gave South Gondor to Harad four months ago, because neither of us was present to vote!"

"You know that that was out of our control, Faramir—"

"No it was not! It was my fault because since Éowyn's death I have failed in every single one of my duties!" Faramir shouted, his voice cracking on her name. "I am _not_ the man I used to be, Elphir, and I can no longer live with people expecting me to be! I cannot deal with this stress! Don't you understand? It is driving me _mad_!"

"Have you given any thought to what will happen if you do this, Faramir?" asked Elphir softly. "Elboron is not old enough to take your place. Your replacement must be chosen from among the lords of Gondor or their sons. Which of those on the Council do you see fit for the office, Faramir? Orodreth, the traitor? Damrod, sly dog that he is? Dervorin, too weak-kneed to form an opinion of his own? Glosfalath, perhaps?"

"I have already suggested to the King that he choose you as my successor." Faramir paused to see the shock spread over Elphir's face. "Whether he does or not is another matter, but either way it is no longer my concern. I am the Steward of Gondor no more."


	6. The Words of a Coward

Chapter VI – The Words of a Coward

Nimhiril's adoring grey eyes stared back up into her father's, and she made a burbling noise in her throat that resembled a giggle. It was such a light, gentle sound that for a moment Faramir felt his cares washed away by its caress against his ears. How good it was to hear laughter. How sweet it was to hold his infant child in his arm, to capture her tightly against his chest and coddle her, simply knowing that she was the last piece of Éowyn left to him in this world.

As soon as it had come, Faramir's moment of lightness and joy was gone, and he was plunged instantly back into the shadows of his thought. Nimhiril loved him, there was no doubting that. Though she was yet no more than a tiny babe, he could see it in her eyes, in the way she gripped his finger with her tiny hand, in the soft black tresses which curled neatly about her chubby face. She loved him, and she was the only person in Middle-earth who expected nothing from him. Yet it was she whom he felt he had wronged the most.

"By what grace does a child live while the mother perishes?" he whispered, his eyes filling with tears. "By what poor chance is a child left alone in a darkening world with nothing but a memory of a long-dead love and the promise of misery and woe to come…" He shuddered heavily and closed his eyes. "I love thee, Nimhiril. So greatly do I love thee that I would surrender my own life if it were necessary to save thine. Yet…in this instance…it is my life which you cherish the most and which I fear I do not have long to give…"

"Faramir." Legolas stood at the entrance to his room, balanced gracefully, catlike, on the balls of his feet, as if expectant of something to come. The Elf still wore traveling clothes, as if he had just arrived in Minas Tirith after a long journey. His green cloak was wrapped about him loosely, and his green eyes pierced Faramir's own.

"Why do you speak of such things, _mellon nin_?" Legolas took a few steps into the room. Faramir let his gaze fall. "Tell me not that you are ill?"

"I am ill, Legolas." Faramir pulled Nimhiril closer into his arms. "Sick of heart and of mind. I have not slept in three days."

"Then you should be abed!" cried Legolas, moving quickly to Faramir's side. "You must get as much rest as you can! Gondor cannot have you falling ill again."

"Gondor does not concern itself with me any longer." Faramir closed his eyes. "I am resigning, Legolas. I have already informed Aragorn and the other lords. In a matter of days, I will step down as Steward, and another will take my place."

"_Ai, fuin loki golodh le_!" said Legolas mournfully. "Gondor has such need of you, _mellon nin_! Why must you resign? T'would be better for you to take leave from your duties, spend some time in Dol Amroth or Rohan, Arnor even, and recover your strength and your health! No man would begrudge you time to heal. We all know what sore trials you have endured."

"Please, Legolas, I beg of you as a friend, do not add to the guilt I bear with me." Faramir looked away again. "This decision is already difficult enough to make. I will not change my mind. You are only making it more painful for me."

"Perhaps I am telling you what you need to hear," Legolas insisted. "Gondor has scarcely seen a finer Steward than you, Faramir. You are a good man and a shrewd one, and the cares of your people lie closest to your heart. Ithilien has grown and prospered in the time you have been Prince, and you know how the King relies on your wisdom on the Council!"

"He cannot rely on me anymore!" Faramir tried to sound angry, but sorrow seeped into his voice. "I cannot focus on anything! The simplest tasks have become for me a wearisome burden! I no longer hold influence over the other lords as I used to, and my 'wisdom' on the Council has become nothing but folly! I make mistake after mistake, and I no longer have the energy to try to fix them!"

Nimhiril began to wail in her father's arms, and Faramir's fervor softened immediately to regret and apology. He sat in a nearby chair to comfort his daughter, cooing gentle words in her ear and rocking her back and forth.

"Please don't cry, my little lady," Faramir whispered, kissing her forehead. "Shhh…"

Legolas looked on passively, his eyes captured by the tiny girl's bright red face. Even when she screamed, she was still beautiful. So delicate and fragile, like a newly bloomed flower whose petals are silky soft and sensitive to the sun. More than anything, Legolas wanted a child of his own, but he could not bear the thought of binding himself to a woman for eternity.

Nimhiril's wet nurse hurried into the room and reached to take the child from her father.

"There, m'Lord, I'll settle her down right quick," said the nurse soothingly. Faramir reluctantly passed his daughter to the nurse's arms. "She's hungry, is all, no doubt. No need to fret."

Faramir mumbled something under his breath and watched the wet nurse leave with Nimhiril. He leaned forward in the chair and rested his forehead on his hands. This stress was even beginning to make him a bad father…

"Come, walk with me," Legolas offered kindly. "I arrived early. My appointment with Aragorn is not for another two hours."

"I am tired, Legolas."

"Then it shall be a short walk," the Elf assured him. A little while later found them strolling slowly down through the city, surrounded by the hustle and bustle of daily life in Minas Tirith. They avoided the well-trafficked markets and kept mostly to the wide main streets where they could walk abreast and still not worry about being run over by a wagon or a group of soldiers dashing by.

"I wonder if you have considered this decision well," Legolas murmured. "It is uncharacteristic of you, and I worry that you are influenced by forces outside of yourself."

"No." Faramir kept his eyes steadily on his feet. "It is my will only that I should resign. I was unsure until…" Faramir stopped himself with a pang of guilt. He had not joined the Council meetings since that day when his failure to interpret the lords' demeanors had led to a vote for a war against Khand. He could not stand the thought of seeing the haughty look in Glosfalath's eyes or the dull, self-assured glaze over Damrod's or the forlorn misery in Elphir's. As he had decided then for sure that he must resign, Aragorn had pardoned him from future meetings. His duties as Steward were truly beginning to fade away.

"Until what, Faramir?" Legolas prompted, bringing him back to the conversation.

Faramir sighed heavily. "We are going to war, Legolas. We are going to war, and there is nothing now that I can do to stop it. I-I could have prevented it, if I was still the man I was when I accepted my office, but…" He shook his head. "I am losing…everything. Whatever skill as Steward I once had, it is vanishing right in front of me…"

"What happened?" asked Legolas in shock. "We are going to war? Against whom?"

"Against the Variags." Faramir swayed on his feet. The lightheaded feeling had returned to him more and more frequently lately. The world seemed to spin, and it was only by Legolas' hand on his shoulder that he was able to steady himself.

"I do not wish to speak of it," he muttered, passing a hand over his eyes. "The vote was cast, and by a mistake of mine the result was in favor of war. I misinterpreted everything. I missed so many obvious signs… I cannot be the Steward anymore, Legolas. The stress is beginning to take its toll on me."

"Enough so to claim your life?" asked Legolas solemnly. "I heard you speak of death. What has made you grow so morbid? Everyone was so hopeful that you were beginning to mend."

"This is not what I want, Legolas. It is merely what I am condemned to." Faramir looked up at the sky with bleak, empty eyes. "I can feel cold, bitterness, pain. There is not a moment when I am awake that I am not in agony, whether physical or emotional. My heart can only resist darkness for so long before it surrenders. I am consumed by my nightmares, and I am too weakened by lack of sleep to fight them."

"Are you the same Faramir I call my friend?" asked Legolas sharply. "How can you give up so easily? Your friends are here for you, as always, and yet you turn us aside and say that you will not try! I thought we had gotten you out of that stage at least, Faramir!"

Faramir lowered his eyes to look at Legolas, but instead his gaze caught on the harsh glare of a dark man walking past them. Instantly he was pitched into blackness, and a series of images flashed in front of his eyes. _Tears…a trial…furious crowds…an execution…blood…_

Faramir stumbled sideways and collapsed, and Legolas hastened to catch him. Cold and shivering, Faramir closed his eyes and gasped.

"Faramir!" cried Legolas anxiously, kneeling with his friend in his arms. His eyes fluttered closed, and he laid one hand upon Faramir's brow. "_Gwathrandir, ú-guino fuinesse! Minno galad! Non thoniel estelo le. Edrathon annon echoiro le. Lasto beth nin!_"

Faramir wrenched his eyes open and at first saw nothing but the eyes of the man who had shot him that black look. Slowly, as his heartbeat receded to normal, the eyes faded away into Legolas' concerned face.

"They're…they're changing…" Faramir panted. "The visions…the things I see… They aren't…they aren't Éowyn anymore… They're…darker. They're different. Things that have not yet come to pass… Things I cannot stop…"

"What are you talking about, _mellon nin_?" said Legolas in a low voice, stroking Faramir's damp brow. "_Ú-tiro fuin_."

Faramir choked. "Someone is going to die… Someone…but who? I thought…I thought these visions would go away…once I resigned from the Stewardship… The fault cannot be mine if I am in no position to help! It is no longer my duty to protect the King and Queen!" He twisted fitfully in Legolas' arms. "The fault cannot be mine! It cannot be mine!" He wept weakly, as though he barely had strength enough even to cry. It was out of helplessness that he wept, out of the knowledge that something was going to happen that was beyond his control. Once again he would be forced to stand by and watch someone he loved be wrenched brutally away from him, just another blow to his spirit.

Legolas watched the shadows flicker behind Faramir's teary eyes, full of fear and pain. He closed his own eyes again, whispering words of comfort in Elvish, in Westron, in any language he could think of, if only Faramir's pain would subside. They had brought him out of utter oblivion, but now his struggle was merely prolonged. Instead of allowing him to die for months ago with the death of his wife, they had dragged him back to reality, back to life, forcing him to struggle through however many years it would be before his natural death. Which was better, in the end? Which would have been more cruel, to allow him to die or to force him to live?

"You will mend, Faramir," Legolas said, his voice soft and quiet. "I promise you, this darkness will not endure. You will mend…"

Faramir wavered, on the brink of speaking the very words he dreaded the most. Finally he surrendered, and the words flew from his mouth. "I do not wish to mend. It is like mending a wound in the flesh; it will only hurt all the more when it is reopened afresh. I would rather die than continue this!" The instant the words left his lips, he regretted them. He had spoken the thing which haunted his mind, the thing which he had known he could never utter aloud to any friend. Now Legolas knew, and he would never be at peace.

"Don't say that, Faramir," said Legolas harshly, his grip tightening on Faramir's shoulders. "You cannot give in! Those are the words of a coward!"

"Then I am a coward…"

"No you are not!" Legolas hauled Faramir to his feet, forcing him to stand unsupported. Faramir swayed but did not fall again. "You are only fooling yourself, Faramir! I am growing tired of this game! You lie to trick yourself, and you believe the lies! You know that you are making it up, yet you deceive yourself into believing it is the truth!"

"It _is_ the truth, Legolas."

"No." Legolas settled his fierce eyes on his friend's, and Faramir flinched. "Do not lie to me, Faramir. If you are going to lie to yourself, there is nothing I can say or do to stop you, but do not lie to me. I know you better. We all know you better. You do not know yourself."

A weak smile turned up the corner of Faramir's mouth. "You are right. I do not know myself. I am lost." He turned away. "When I leave Minas Tirith three days hence, I plan never to return." He paused. "You must understand…this is the only way I can protect myself. If I must die, I will not die like he did."

"Like who did?" murmured Legolas, already knowing the answer.

Faramir closed his eyes tight, squeezing out a tear that fell silently down his pale cheek. "Like my father did," he whispered, his eyes growing hazy with memories. A strong breeze tossed his raven hair in front of his eyes, and he shivered. "He died in madness and in ruin, a crude shadow of the man he once was, a crumbled figure of a human being. Legolas, I…" The tears swelled so quickly that Faramir could not contain them all. "…I-I swore that I would never die like him. It is a promise to myself that I cannot break. If I break it, I will truly forget who I am. Do you not understand? I can only be saved by resigning and by a swift death, so that I do not have time to decay into the rotting soul that my father became."

Legolas put a hand on Faramir's shoulder. "I have said it before, and I will say it again: You are not now, nor will you ever be your father. He was driven by madness and despair and corruption. You have none of these things."

"I _had_ none of them," Faramir corrected. "My heart is now accustomed to despair, and madness will soon follow if I do not…" Weary, he shook his head. "Nightmares, visions, sickness, wars… I can't deal with it all, Legolas. For my own health, I must step aside."

"And yet you are certain that you shall perish nonetheless!"

"For my sanity, then." Faramir averted his eyes. "Would you rather have me mad or dead, Legolas?"

"Neither," said the Elf sternly. "But if one or the other, then certainly mad. I confess that I have thought you rather batty for years."

Faramir frowned. "I know you would lift my spirits, but it is no laughing matter to me."

"Nor to me. Do you think I speak in jest?"

"Legolas."

"Faramir."

Faramir sighed. "It is late. I should retire."

Legolas groaned dramatically. "No witty rebuttal? No clever banter? Come, Faramir, where has your scholarly spirit gone?" he teased, desperately hoping to awaken in his friend some forgotten laughter, some hidden joy, some lost playfulness.

"Good night, Legolas."

Legolas stared after Faramir long after he had left the narrow alleyway where they had stood. The rush of the markets began to dwindle around him, as the sky darkled in the east. The cobblestone streets echoed with the empty trod of forlorn horses driven by equally oppressed masters. Minas Tirith was dying with the sunlight and with Faramir's hope.

"_Ai, mellon nin_," Legolas lamented gently into the growing darkness. "More like your father are you already."

* * *

_mellon nin_

(my friend)

_Ai, fuin loki golodh le!_

(Alas, darkness has bent thy wisdom!)

_Gwathrandir, ú-guino fuinesse! Minno galad! Non thoniel estelo le. Edrathon annon echoiro le. Lasto beth nin!_

(Shadow-wanderer, live not in darkness! Enter the light! I am the kindler of thy hope. I will open the door of your awakening. Listen to my words!)

_Ú-tiro fuin._

(Look not towards darkness.)

_Ai, mellon nin._

(Alas, my friend.)


	7. A Knife in the Dark

Warning: There is some mild violence in this chapter. I don't like going overboard, but it does involve some blood, and I would not like to distress any of my readers.

* * *

Chapter VII – A Knife in the Dark

Faramir hardly ate through the entire meal. He could hear Elboron and Eldarion laughing, exchanging the high points of their day, and his hands shook. This was the day when everything would change. Everything that he had strove for over the past twenty years would become virtually meaningless. His family's birthright over hundreds of years would be demolished. His son would lose his inheritance, and Faramir would lose the respect of Gondor.

Was there still time to change his mind? Faramir glanced up at Aragorn and saw the King's eyes meet his for only a fraction of a moment. They seemed to say, 'Yes, Faramir, there is still time.' Faramir looked away again. He knew that he had no choice in this matter. What must be done must be done, no matter the consequences.

With a start, Faramir realized that Aragorn had stood up. The hall immediately fell silent, and the King opened his mouth to speak. Faramir felt his heart leap into his throat. Was this really what he wanted? To surrender the duty he loved?

Yes, he thought sternly. Yes. There was no other way.

"Good people of Gondor," Aragorn began regally. "I have two very important announcements to make this e'en. Firstly, it is with a grim heart that I must inform you that Gondor has declared war against the Variags of Khand on behalf of our allies the Haradrim." Whispers and glances flew about the feast hall, and Aragorn waited until they had quieted themselves. "This decision has been reached by an overwhelming majority vote by the Council. In no more than three years hence, we shall engage the Variags in combat."

Faramir could feel some of the eyes in the hall on him, as if they wondered how the Steward of Gondor, a well-respected man who was known for his revulsion towards warfare, could have allowed this vote to pass.

"Eldarion, did you hear?" Elboron was whispering excitedly. "War! Real war! Not training, but real battle!"

A twisting, wrenching feeling of sickness in Faramir's gut turned him pale. Elboron would be going to war…

"Secondly, I have an pronouncement unhappier still to give on behalf of the Steward Faramir." Aragorn's brow was lined with a deep frown, and still more whispers began to circulate. Elboron gave his father a strange look, but Faramir could not bear to meet his eyes. "For twenty years Faramir has been Steward of Gondor, governing his duties and his princedom with wisdom and skill. It is now my deepest regret to inform you of Faramir's decision to step down from the Stewardship."

The whispers exploded into cries of disbelief, and Faramir closed his eyes. He could hear the quick gasp of breath from Elboron, the shock, followed quickly by anger. Without saying a word, Elboron stood and stormed out of the feast hall unceremoniously, leaving Eldarion behind in a daze.

The King's hand fell on Faramir's shoulder. "Go to him," said Aragorn firmly, his eyes hard. "Explain, if you can. You owe him that much."

Blindly, obediently, Faramir followed his son out of the feast hall and into the pouring rain outside in the Citadel. He was drenched to the bone within a matter of seconds, and he wiped the rain out of his eyes to see Elboron still walking briskly away from him in the direction of the guardhouse.

"Elboron!" Faramir called after him, shivering. Elboron did not turn, so Faramir hurried after him. "Elboron, please, listen—"

"What should I?" snapped Elboron, not even bothering to look at his father.

"Because I owe you an explanation, or an apology at least," said Faramir. A flash of lightning lit the sky, followed an instant later by a crack of thunder. The rain seemed to come down even heavier than before, dumping buckets of water on Faramir and Elboron.

"I want neither," said Elboron bitterly. "You don't have to explain. I understand. Your grief has weakened you, and you can no longer carry the burden of the Stewardship." His voice was thick with sarcasm. "I understand."

Faramir wanted to chastise Elboron for speaking to him with such a tone, but his guilt made him swallow it silently. "It isn't just that, Elboron. I-I have been suffering from these horrid nightmares for months—"

"Nightmares, visions, yes I _know_." Elboron was beginning to raise his voice. "You can't cope with it. You can't handle it. Whatever it is, fine. I don't care."

"But you do care," Faramir insisted.

Elboron laughed. "No, Father, I really don't."

"Then why are you angry with me?"

"Because you didn't _tell_ me!" shouted Elboron, finally turning around to face Faramir. The anger that flickered in his eyes forced Faramir into silence. "You don't even have enough respect for me to talk to me about it! You have stolen my inheritance, my birthright! Honestly, I don't really care because I never _wanted_ to become the Steward, but it's the principle of the matter! How could you have such disregard for me as to ignore my part in this? I am your son! Your heir! I have a right to know if you decide to take away my inheritance!"

"I-I didn't know how to tell you," Faramir admitted weakly.

"How convenient," snapped Elboron. "Next time act like a real man instead of just a…a _politician_, and have the courage to speak to your own son!" He whirled, stomped into the guardhouse, and slammed the door shut in his father's face.

The lanterns hung above the guardhouse door swayed and creaked in the howling wind as the rain kept pouring down. Faramir pulled his sodden cloak about him tighter, but it did nothing to keep out the cold rain. It streamed through his hair and into his boots and down his face. He did not even know whether or not he was crying.

The look in Elboron's eyes… Faramir was sure that he had seen it before, but he could not recall when or where. It was a look of hatred, of anger, and of disappointment. It cut Faramir deeply, as though it was slicing open a long-forgotten wound that had never quite healed…

_"Since you are robbed of Boromir, I will go and do what I can in his stead—if you command it." _

_"I do so." _

_"Then farewell! But if I should return, think better of me!" _

_"That depends on the manner of your return."_

Faramir stumbled and leaned against the outer wall for support, gasping. That look…the hatred… He shuddered uncontrollably. The look on Elboron's face… He had last seen it in his father's eyes, the very last time that Faramir had seen his father alive. How had he failed so totally as a father that the same loathing, the same disdain, was reflected in his own son's eyes? Faramir buried his face in his hands and sobbed in shame and grief, the rain beginning to fall even harder. He had lost everything else… How had he lost his son?

The last thing Faramir remembered was collapsing slowly against the wall and falling into a shallow, troubled sleep even as the rain pounded around him.

* * *

Faramir was in the hazy middle stage between dreaming and wakefulness. He could feel that he was warm and dry, and a soft pillow rested beneath his head, but he did not open his eyes. Some horrible thing awaited him if he woke up. Nothing was as it should be. Everything felt out of balance, crooked, as if something had been thrown out of place and everything else was inclined to accommodate and bend and twist somehow. Instead of waking, he forced himself back into sleep. 

_Faramir gasped and opened his eyes, but he did not find himself in his chambers, warm and dry. Instead, he had opened his eyes onto a sight that filled his heart with dread. He stood upon a darkened plain, and before him lay a crumbling city of stone throughout which swarmed a great, black horde. A dim sun sank ever lower in the west, and everything seemed to fade and die. In the growing dark he could see nothing, but two voices swirled around him as if the faces lingered just beyond the black curtain of dusk. _

----------------

_"If what I have done displeases you, my father, I wish I had known your counsel before the burden of so weighty a judgment was thrust on me." _

_"Would that have availed to change your judgment? You would still have done just so, I deem. I know you well. Ever your desire is to appear lordly and generous as a king of old, gracious, gentle. That may well befit one of high race, if he sits in power and peace. But in desperate hours gentleness may be repaid with death." _

_"So be it." _

_"So be it! But not with your death only, Lord Faramir: with the death also of your father, and of all your people, whom it is your part to protect now that Boromir is gone." _

_"Do you wish then that our places had been exchanged?" _

_"Yes, I wish that indeed…" _

----------------

_Brutally, Faramir was thrust into the mad rush of warfare, running, slicing, panting, dodging. Sweat sprang out upon his brow and soaked his leather armor. His lungs seemed to be on fire with the pain of drawing each breath, and he felt as though he would collapse from fatigue. He could hear himself shouting: "Retreat! Retreat! Fall back to Minas Tirith! Fall back!" No one was listening to him! No one could hear him over the terrible screeching of the Nazgul and the roar of the orcs! They would die! They would all die! _

_Faramir felt something brush past his shoulder, and he turned to face what he thought was an orc. Instead, he saw a young maiden with billowing blonde hair rushing past, towards a ruined staircase that led higher in the abandoned city. _

_"Éowyn!" he cried, his heart feeling a crush of panic. He fought his way towards her, cutting down anything in his path. Finally he reached the staircase and vaulted up three steps at a time. At the top, he saw that she was still running away from him, down a dilapidated corridor. He sprinted after her, desperately trying to catch up with the dress-clad figure ahead. She turned a corner and disappeared from his sight for a moment, and as he charged around to meet her his eyes were met by a sight more horrifying than anything he had ever seen. _

_Two orcs held her, one around her waist with a blade to her throat, and one by her wrists pulled behind her back. Bloodstains spotted her delicate gown and her beautiful pale face. They were touching her, and it made him seethe with anger and hatred._

_"Faramir," she gasped. "You must go back! You cannot save me now! Go back! You must fight for yourself!"_

_"I won't leave you!" cried Faramir. "I have spent too long trying to find you! I won't abandon you to them, to death!" He held out one shaking hand, and the orcs gnashed their teeth and growled. "Please…Éowyn…" Tears mingled with sweat and blood on his face. "Return with me. Please…"_

_Éowyn shook her head. "I love you too much to see you do this for me! Go back! I must defend myself now!" _

_"No." Faramir shook his head. "No, I won't let you. I can't let you. Éowyn, please!" He took a halting step forward, and though the orcs snarled again they made no move to stop him. He brought his face close to hers, his heart thudding loudly in his chest. "Éowyn…" Tenderly, he brought their lips together and kissed her warmly and desperately. At her touch, something seemed to drain from him, pushing him beyond his limits of exhaustion. _

_Éowyn's eyes widened suddenly, and she pulled away. "Faramir, behind you!"_

_Faramir whirled and saw the orc just as it drew back its black blade… _

Faramir opened his eyes and saw the dagger just as it plunged down towards his heart. He gasped and twisted away at the last second, and the blade pierced deep into his left shoulder. Pain rushed through his body, and he grabbed the wound instinctively, feeling warm blood rushing over his fingers. Faramir struggled from beneath the layers of blankets that covered him, too shocked to cry out. The man wielding the dagger made no sound, but he moved to strike again. Years of training rushed back to Faramir within an instant, and he seized the man's wrist and kicked out at just the proper angle to break his elbow cleanly. The man groaned in pain and pulled back, dropping the dagger to the floor.

Another dagger quickly appeared in the man's left hand, and as he brought it down for another blow Faramir rolled off the bed and onto the floor. Automatically he groped in the dark for the hilt of the dagger, his heart racing with adrenaline. He caught hold of it at last and leapt to standing to defend himself against his attacker. Before he could do anything, the man dealt a heavy blow to the crown of his skull with his dagger's pommel. Faramir felt his senses leave him, and he collapsed to the floor. Over the deafening ringing in his head, he could barely hear the man's quiet footsteps approaching him.

A face suddenly swam into view in the blackness behind his eyes: Éowyn. She was solemn and grey-faced, and her beauty seemed diminished by anxiety.

_"Fight, Faramir!" she urged him. "You cannot let it end this way! Fight!"_

Faramir's eyes blinked open, and he realized that he was still holding the hilt of the dagger. The sound of the man's blade slicing through the air gave Faramir enough warning to dodge, and then he lunged forward and thrust his dagger between the man's ribs. The man made a choking sound in his throat, releasing his hold on his dagger, and staggered backwards before crumpling to the floor.

_Bed. Knife. Assassin. Blood._

* * *

Aragorn burst into Faramir's chambers, followed closely by a pair of guards. In the light of the torch that one of the guards held aloft, he took in the room with a single sweep of his eyes. A man dressed in dark clothes lay dead on the floor, a dagger piercing his chest. A pool of blood lay beneath him, and another stained the blankets covering the bed. Standing above the dark man was Faramir, his hands covered in blood, shaking and staring at the man at his feet. 

"Take care of the body," Aragorn ordered gruffly. The guards obeyed immediately, and Aragorn moved over to his friend. "Faramir?" He laid a hand gently on Faramir's shoulder, but he did not seem to acknowledge Aragorn's presence. "Faramir?" he said again, lowering his voice further. Faramir made no answer.

Aragorn put his arm behind Faramir's shoulders and guided him silently from the room. In the better light of the passage outside, Aragorn saw that Faramir was wounded in his left shoulder, and he was pale from shock and blood loss. Aragorn swiftly escorted his friend to the Houses of Healing where they cleaned the wound and bandaged it quickly. The dagger had just barely missed the scar tissue from the arrow wound Faramir had suffered long ago during the War.

The healers were more concerned about Faramir going into severe shock than about the wound itself. Aragorn stood back and watched as they loosened his clothes and heated the fire nearby to keep him warm, although he was already sweating heavily. Faramir's face was still deathly pale, and he seemed to be barely breathing at all. His lips had turned slightly blue. His pulse was rapid but weak. Aragorn waited anxiously at his bedside, knowing that Faramir's condition was very serious.

No one had bothered to wash the blood off of Faramir's hands. When the healers began to drift away, worried but unable to do more, Aragorn asked for a bowl of hot water. As soon as Aragorn began to dip Faramir's hand into the steaming water, he gasped and pulled backwards, his eyes springing open.

"Hush, _mellon nin_," said Aragorn soothingly, his brow creasing with concern. Gently, he took Faramir's hand again and lowered it slowly into the bowl, and Faramir relaxed slowly. "You are safe now. I am not going to let anyone hurt you." He carefully scrubbed Faramir's hands clean of the encrusted blood, and Faramir shook badly. The look behind his eyes was one of such horror that Aragorn himself was frightened by it.

"He…he tried…" Faramir struggled to speak, his breath coming in little gasps now.

"Shhh, do not speak," said Aragorn, trying to ease Faramir's panic. "No one is going to harm you now. Do not speak…"

Faramir choked. "I-I did not mean…"

"Shhh…"

"Éowyn!" Faramir's eyes widened, and he coughed violently. "She…she saved me, Aragorn! She—!" He was cut off by another coughing fit, and Aragorn helped him to sit up. The color was beginning to return to his cheeks, and when Aragorn held his wrist he felt a stronger pulse. Faramir winced at the pain in his shoulder and regulated his breaths awkwardly so as not to cause it further pain.

"She spoke to me in a dream," he continued weakly. "She warned me! She…she woke me up! I-I would be dead, Aragorn! Dead!" Huge, round tears fell from his eyes. "I-I didn't mean to… But I had no choice… And…and…" His voice faded as his weariness began to catch up with him. "It was me, Aragorn," he said hoarsely. "My vision… It-it was me! I-I thought it would be you…but…"

Aragorn put a hand on Faramir's brow, trying to calm him. "Yes, I know," he whispered. "I should have known. You spoke of royal blood being spilt, of a ceremony fit for a king or a prince. You are the Prince of Ithilien, Faramir. Not royal blood physically but by title. I am sorry I did not realize sooner…"

Faramir shuddered with suppressed sobs. "I-I do not understand… Why does everyone hate me? What have I done to deserve so much hatred?"

Aragorn closed his eyes in pain. This was a ghost of Faramir's past that he could not fight, not even if he had known how. "I do not know, Faramir," he said, brushing back his friend's raven hair. "I do not know."

* * *

_mellon nin_

(my friend)

Authors Note: This chapter title "A Knife in the Dark") was taken directly from _The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring_, Book I, Chapter 11: A Knife in the Dark.


	8. ‘He will always be my Steward’

Note: This is a slightly edited version of Chapter VIII, due to some comments in reviews I wished to address. Also, I was unhappy with this chapter in general, since I rushed it. It's better now, though! Expect Chapter IX soon!

* * *

Author's Note: Greetings, my loyal friends! I apologize for taking so very long to update this story, and now I have a very important announcement concerning 'Mending': I will be changing the title of this story very soon. The characters have clearly taken control of the story, and it has turned into something which I did not originally intend. This title no longer fits. The new title will be 'Into Shadow'. It makes much more sense, as I am sure you will see a little later in the story. ;) 

This change will be enacted the next time I update, so please be sure to take notice! Once again, THIS STORY WILL BE CALLED 'INTO SHADOW' FROM MY NEXT UPDATE ONWARD. Thank you for your loyalty, _mellyn nin_! - Minyasta

* * *

Chapter VIII – 'He will always be my Steward.' 

Legolas pulled back his hood and shook the rain out of his blonde hair. "I came as soon as I heard," he said breathlessly, moving to the other side of the cot. "How is he?"

Aragorn sighed and laid his hand upon Faramir's brow. "He is still very sick and weak from pain and blood loss, yet there is something more. After it happened last night, he seemed shaken but sound in mind. I thought he would recover swiftly. This morning, he deteriorated completely. The healers summoned me when they said they could not rouse him. I have been doing all that I can for him, but…" Aragorn shook his head and pushed a sweaty lock of his Steward's hair away from his face. "…he has not awakened…"

Legolas closed his eyes and placed two fingers upon Faramir's temples. "He is not with us," whispered the Elf. "Yet neither is he gone from this world… He is trapped within his mind."

"Yes," said Aragorn softly. "I know. It is much like his illness at the end of the War, when he fell beneath the Black Breath. Now, though… I have tried everything. Not even _athelas_ wakes him. I search for his wandering mind, but though I call for him he does not answer…"

"Perhaps he cannot answer," said Legolas.

"Perhaps… Or perhaps he does not wish to answer…" Aragorn seemed to struggle with his words for a moment, and he bowed his head over Faramir's still form. "Oh, Legolas… I fear for him… If I am right in believing that he has been trapped within his mind by his subconscious, then he will not survive long."

Legolas paled. "What do you mean?"

"I have seen Faramir's dreams. Darker are they than any I have dreamt. They are full of blood and death and loved ones long gone. He is tormented by the sight of Éowyn's body, by the haunted sound of her voice. He sees them all, and he sees himself bleeding and gasping beneath the ashen clouds of an eternal battleground… Legolas, Faramir's dreams are too terrible for you to imagine. No man can sustain such a physiological strain for long without suffering severe injuries of the mind and body, and Faramir has already been forced to endure much. Legolas…" Aragorn stroked Faramir's brow again, but his Steward did not stir. "…he will die."

"We cannot allow that to happen," said Legolas. "There must be something we can do. I will summon my father, or even Lord Celeborn! Elladan or Elrohir! Anyone!"

"There is no time, Legolas. There is nothing we can do…"

"How did this happen?"

Aragorn sighed and wiped a hand across his weary eyes. "I do not know, but I believe that somehow…during the attempt on his life, Faramir was…damaged. I do not know how, but someone from the circles of the spiritual world came in contact with Faramir, and I believe that that someone was Éowyn."

"Is…is that possible?"

"Anything is possible in the chambers of our own minds…" Aragorn frowned deeply. "I think…I think that he is looking for her… I think he believes that he can bring her back. I have been going about this all the wrong way. I should have taught him how to control his emotions and his visions, not merely how to experience them. I have been teaching Faramir to open himself to his visions and dreams, to perceive things as broadly as he can so that he is not plagued by nightmares. This is result. Faramir has plunged himself so far into the world of his visions that reality has been blocked out completely. He does not know enough to protect himself there. If he loses himself in his mind…we may never get him back."

"So we know the state of his mind," said Legolas slowly. "What do we know of his physical health?"

Aragorn looked down upon his Steward with sadness. "It is deteriorating. It has been, ever since Éowyn's death… When he is not feverish, he suffers chills. He lost too much blood last night. His heartbeat is faint and irregular. He is not well."

"What you are saying is that his physical well-being is connected somehow to his mental or emotional condition," said Legolas.

"Yes. Faramir has always been so. When his heart suffers, so does his body."

"How can we get him back?"

Aragorn paused, as if considering the answer, then growled to himself. "I do not know! If I knew, I would have tried it by now! I do not know what to do!"

"Where is Elboron? Has he been to see his father since last night?"

"Yes, once. Now he has become obsessed with tracking down who was behind it. Much enmity has passed between father and son since Éowyn's passing, especially now that Faramir has surrendered his claim to the Stewardship, but Elboron would never wish his father dead. His thirst for vengeance upon his father's attacker is…intimidating."

"Are you sure we can rule out the single, self-motivated assassin theory?"

"Yes, I am sure," said Aragorn with certainty. "This was not the work of a single man, and there is no motivation for that man to try to kill Faramir. Everything points to someone having hired the assassin. Who and why are the questions which must now be answered."

"Will Faramir be charged for the man's death?"

"No. It was an act in self-defense. No one can charge him with murder."

"Technically there are no witnesses to prove—"

"Faramir is my Steward," snapped Aragorn. "I do not believe for an instant that Faramir is capable of murder! Do you?"

"No," said Legolas simply. "But the Council is not always satisfied without evidence, and you know that. I know that Faramir acted in self-defense, but do they? What if the man who hired that assassin is one of the lords on your Council? They would be all too eager to insist that Faramir be put on trial, would they not?"

"Faramir will not be tried for murder," said Aragorn, his voice dangerous. "I will never allow it." Suddenly Aragorn fell silent, stunned, realizing what Legolas had said. "Legolas…did you suggest that the man behind the attempt could be on my Council?"

"Yes, but I did not mean to suggest—"

"Glosfalath." Aragorn's hands clenched into fists, and he had to struggle to control his anger. "That rotten, conniving son of a Nazgul!"

"Aragorn, what are you talking about?"

"Glosfalath! He has coveted Faramir's position since the moment be succeeded his father as the lord of Anfalas! It was Faramir's suggestion that I appoint Elphir as the new Steward. Elphir was the obvious choice for the position, after all. I am willing to wager that Glosfalath thought he would get what he wanted if he just got Faramir and Elphir out of his way. Faramir was first, so that when Elphir is killed I cannot coerce Faramir into returning to his post…"

Aragorn rose swiftly and strode towards the door. "I must warn Elphir to return to Dol Amroth for a time, and somehow I must prove Glosfalath's guilt without violating the laws…"

"Estel," said Legolas, "are you sure of this? If you are wrong, you will face a serious questioning of your authority as King."

"I am not wrong," said Aragorn sternly.

"You are certain?"

"Yes."

Legolas frowned to himself, then nodded. "Then I will help you." He swept towards the door and joined Aragorn as they took long, quick steps down the long hallway. "Let us find Elboron and see what he can tell us first…"

"Wait." Aragorn stopped suddenly. "Who will stay with Faramir, then?"

Legolas paused. "You should stay with Faramir," he said quietly. "He needs you, _mellon nin_. You should be there when he awakens."

"Yes, you are right." Aragorn nodded. "When he awakens."

Legolas gave his friend a tight smile. "I will do what I can with Elboron. I believe there is more behind this mystery than anyone can detect. There is something here that runs deep, something that I cannot explain. It is…dangerous. If we dig too deeply…"

"Yet we must," said Aragorn. "The life of my Steward has been severely threatened."

"Do not forget," said Legolas sadly, "he is no longer your Steward. Elphir is the Steward now."

Aragorn smiled crookedly, looking more like a Ranger than he had in a while. "Legolas, no matter what happens, Faramir will always be my Steward." Legolas nodded in understanding and hurried down the hall, and Aragorn returned to Faramir's side. "No matter what happens, Faramir…" he whispered, "…you will always be my Steward."

* * *

_mellon nin_

(my friend)


	9. On the Edge of an Abyss

Chapter IX – On the Edge of an Abyss

Elboron closed his eyes, his head aching with weariness. The man who sat before him was trembling from nerves and anger, but Elboron ignored him. His mind wandered back to his father, who lay in the Houses of Healing even now, nigh unto death.

_How could he have gotten himself so badly wounded after I was so angry with him?_ Elboron cursed to himself. _How dare he shove his illness unfairly beneath my nose?_ Elboron knew that his father had been unhealthy ever since his mother passed away, but it was simply ungentlemanly and discourteous of Faramir to fall ill when Elboron had had no chance to apologize for his behavior!

_I should be apologizing for nothing_, Elboron reminded himself vehemently. _He has no right to strip me of my birthright! He should be the one to apologize!_ In the back of his mind, though, a tingle of guilt resurfaced again.

Faramir could not apologize. He could not even awaken. Elboron growled with frustration. _It is as though everything he does is merely in spite of me!_

"My Lord Elboron, I swear to you, I had nothing to do with this," said Lord Orodreth. Despite his rigid back and stern appearance, Elboron could hear his voice shaking. "I would never do anything to harm Prince Faramir. He is a revered member of the Council, and I have deep respect for him! Your accusations are utterly outrageous!"

"I have as of yet accused you of nothing," said Elboron impatiently. "I asked you if you had heard any discontent that would cause someone to attempt to _assassinate_ my father."

"After which you asked if I have been approached by anyone wishing me to finance such an appalling operation!" Lord Orodreth exclaimed. "It would appear to me, young Lord Elboron, that you believe that I am responsible for hiring the assassin who attempted to kill the Prince! As though I, the Lord of Pinnath Gelin, would even consider transgressing to such a…a _deplorable _level!"

"I asked you if you knew anything, my Lord," said Elboron tensely, his anger building as Orodreth continued to ignore his question. "What might have caused this attempt on my father's life?"

"How am I to know?" asked Lord Orodreth, affronted. "I am not knowledgeable of the minds of assassins!"

"There was a vote in the Council, not three days past," said Elboron darkly. "You changed your vote against my father's argument."

"What? If you mean to suggest that a petty vote in the Council would cause me to—"

"A petty vote, my Lord Orodreth?" Elboron's eyebrows rose. "That vote decided that Gondor should go to war against the Variags. My father is deeply set against foreign aggression, and you know this. You supported his platform against war in the East and then overturned your opinion in the vote! Why was this? Because you feel that the Variags are a threat to Gondor? Or because a superior lord on the Council promised you a share in the mining profits, should you happen to seize the mithril mines of Khand during the war?"

"Preposterous!" cried Lord Orodreth. "Lord Elboron, it is not within your power to interrogate me as though I was convicted of murder! I will say nothing further until I receive proper representation in a court of law before the King!"

Elboron rose from his seat, his eyes flashing. "You will not leave this room until you tell me everything that you know. Confess!" he snarled. "You wanted to be rid of my father's opposition so that you could receive your share of the rewards! You hired the assassin on behalf of the lord who recruited you!"

"Hold your tongue, boy, or I will have you charged for harassment and assault," said Lord Orodreth threateningly.

"Tell me!" roared Elboron, bringing a fist down hard on the table. Lord Orodreth stumbled to his feet, and at that moment a dark-clad Elf strode into the room.

"Elboron, silence," the Elf ordered quietly. "Lord Orodreth, please accept my apology on behalf of the King. Trust that you will find it in your best interest not to press charges against young Elboron here. I promise you that you will not be harassed by him again."

"This is none of your concern!" shouted Elboron.

Legolas faced the young boy, his eyes hard. "You will mind your place, child," said Legolas sternly.

"To the Void with you! This is my affair!" cried Elboron, his hands clenching into fists.

"Lord Orodreth, I beg you to pay the child no heed. It is difficult for him to cope with his father's illness after the strain of the past few months." Legolas bowed. "The King will pay you reparations of five thousand in gold for Elboron's discourtesy." Lord Orodreth mumbled something incoherent, nodded, and fled quickly from the room.

Elboron swore loudly at the Elf. "Who are you to speak in the King's name?" he demanded.

"You know that I am a friend of Elessar's and of Faramir's, and I have been sent to help you." Legolas frowned. "But you must cease your rash, impulsive disobedience of the law. Ever have you been a tactless child. So reckless, uncaring for anything that gets in your way! You are growing too old to be so neglectful of responsibility, Elboron."

"I care not for your damned politics!" shouted Elboron.

"I'm afraid that you have no choice in that, young one," said Legolas disapprovingly. "If you wish to find Faramir's attacker, then you must do so both discreetly and _legally_. Subtlety is the only thing that can help us. Though even that may be impossible now, thanks to your antics with Lord Orodreth…"

"My father could have been _killed_ last night! The healers have told me that he has lost all consciousness! That he may _never_ wake up! By the time the courts reach a decision, he will already be _dead_!" Elboron dropped heavily into his seat and covered his face in his hands, for once unable to hold back the flood of tears. His shoulders shuddered weakly, and he bit his lower lip to stop the sob that threatened to escape.

Legolas put his hand on the young boy's shoulder. "Elboron," he murmured. "I understand how difficult this must be for you…"

"Do you?" asked Elboron miserably, unbelievingly.

"Yes." Legolas sighed. "When I was very small, just an elfling, both of my younger sisters were killed during a spider raid on the Elven Halls of Mirkwood. I…I have not lived a day since then when I have not thought of them… I thought that it was my duty to protect them…that I failed them…" He shook his head. "During that raid, my mother, my father, and my two younger brothers were poisoned by the spiders and fell deathly ill. Only I was left unscathed, by mere accident. A few weeks passed when I…I thought that I was going to be forsaken for the rest of eternity, lost without my family. I watched them suffer, and I wished that I, too, had been poisoned. I wished that I would die with my family. I grew reckless, foolish, seeking out the spiders in their hives and trying to meet with death. Only the constant efforts of my father's warriors kept me from reaching the end of my suicidal missions. I…I was just like you, Elboron."

Elboron listened impassively, his eyes on the floor, seemingly numb to Legolas' words.

"Then Lord Elrond was summoned to Mirkwood. He arrived just as the warriors were bringing me back from another attempt to face my sisters' bane. He saw it then. He was the only one who saw it for what it truly was. The pain behind my eyes. The grief. The suffering. Just as I now see behind your eyes, Elboron. When we think that we are about to be left on the edge of an abyss with no one to remember us, we will do things that we think no one else can understand."

Legolas closed his eyes, and his voice dropped to a whisper. "But I do understand, Elboron. You suffer. Four months ago, you lost your mother. Now, you are close to losing your father. I understand that you would do anything to save him, or at least to convict his murderer. I understand that you don't care about the laws or about what anyone else has to say about you. But I also understand that you are digging yourself deeper into a hole in your mind to ignore your grief and your pain. You think that no one notices you. You think they have all forgotten you. Because you are a soldier, you think they all expect you to hide it.

"Elboron, listen to me when I say that until you can bring yourself to find peace with your father and forgive him for the mistakes he has made, until you can think of this without anger or grudge, until you can grieve without withholding the sorrow, and until you can let it pass from you, you will not find his murderer. You will be too overwrought by blind pain to succeed. These are the words spoken to me by Lord Elrond: 'Had your people any more tears to shed, they would shed them for you. But this land is dry to the bone from weeping, and if you abandon your people now, they will truly forget you.' This is your task, Elboron. You must give confidence where there is none. You must be your father for your people. They need you, Elboron, just as you need them. They will not forget you as long as you do not forget them."

Elboron pushed a hand back through his blonde hair, exhausted by the intensity of his anger and his grief. "Tell me, good Legolas," he said hoarsely. "What has this to do with the search for my father's attacker?"

Legolas smiled. "What I am trying to tell you, Elboron, is that if you look towards your fellow man rather than towards only your own grief, you will find the friends you need." The Elf stepped aside, and Elboron realized with a start that a man stood in the corner of the room, having slipped in unnoticed while Legolas spoke.

Elphir's smile was almost painful. "My good cousin Elboron," he said softly. "Please accept my help on this matter. My grief for you…and for Faramir…is too much for me to bear in silence. I would do for you whatever I can."

Elboron gazed evenly at Legolas and Elphir, and only with his eyes could he express his gratitude. "Truly, cousin—Lord Steward," Elboron corrected himself, "I would be most honored to accept any assistance you can give."

"None of that," said Elphir quietly. "I am no more than your cousin here. I will never be the Steward of Gondor, not in anything but name. Your father, Elboron, will always be Elessar's Steward. That title belongs to Faramir and to Faramir's line, and thus to you."

Elboron's anger flared again. "My _father _would not have it be so, Elphir," he said bitterly. "My father would deny me my birthright without consultation on the matter."

"Elboron, you must understand the torture that Faramir has withstood," said Legolas quietly. "Yes, it was wrong of him to repeal your birthright without taking counsel with you. Yes, Faramir has made many mistakes, none of which he is proud of. But the grief that resides in his heart is the same as in yours, Elboron. You and your father are not so different as you appear."

Legolas' words did nothing to calm the anger flashing behind Elboron's eyes. "I would disagree," he growled. "My father and I are _very _different. He does not understand me. He doesn't want to."

"That is not true," said Elphir. "Faramir understands you better than you think he does."

"He hates soldiers," snapped Elboron, jerking his head about sharply to glare at Elphir.

"He hates war," Elphir corrected in a steely tone. "You forget that Faramir, too, was once a soldier. I myself fought with him in the War when we were young."

"That was a long time ago," scoffed Elboron. "Any patriotic feeling my father once had is long gone now."

"Now _that _is going too far," said Elphir, frowning.

"No it isn't," Elboron retorted. "My father—" He was cut off for a moment by resurfacing tears, but he swallowed them deftly and resumed his defiant glare. "My father has no respect for the work of a soldier. He has no respect for the desire to serve one's country."

"Perhaps you should hold your tongue when you are ignorant of the truth," said Elphir stiffly. "Your father was the most dedicated, most selfless, most patriotic soldier in all of Gondor. Your father was willing to give his life for this nation! Gondor has never seen a captain more brave or more loved than Captain Faramir."

"Then why doesn't he respect me as a soldier?" demanded Elboron.

"You are not a soldier, Elboron!" cried Elphir. His words echoed into silence. Even Elboron was too stunned to reply. "You are a boy who has been trained to fight. That does not make you a soldier. You have not seen battle. You have not seen death. If you had seen half of the horror of war that I have seen, which Eru knows is not a quarter of what Faramir has seen, then you would know better than to disrespect your father and callously dismiss him as unpatriotic."

"Enough," said Legolas quietly. "Elphir, you must not blame the boy for speaking according to what he has been told—or, rather, what he has _not _been told. You know as well as I that Faramir never speaks of the War. As for you, Elboron, you should not always assume that you have surmised a person's character when you do not know their past. Your father sacrificed much for Gondor, and now he is forced to live with haunting memories. You will never hear him speak of it. You will probably never know the whole truth. But when I tell you that Faramir hates war, it is because I know the pain and the loss he has suffered because of war. All of us who lived then remember…and they are the worst memories that any of us harbor. You may hope, Elboron, that you never face the same horrors that your father did."

"I will fight for Gondor, no matter what I face," said Elboron proudly.

"The words of a young, glory-seeking man," said Elphir sadly. "I've heard them before." When Elboron only glared at Elphir, he added, "Your uncle, Boromir, spoke the same way you do."

Elboron met his cousin's gaze steadily. "Then my uncle was an honorable man."

"Boromir died thinking the way you do," said Legolas in a hushed voice.

"Are you going to tell me what you know of my father's attacker or aren't you?" said Elboron, changing the subject swiftly.

Legolas sighed. "The King is convinced that Lord Glosfalath is responsible for hiring the assassin. He believes that Glosfalath wants Elphir's position as Steward."

"Wants _Faramir's _position as Steward," said Elphir, frowning.

"Regardless of our own personal feelings on the matter, you are the official Steward of Gondor," said Legolas to Elphir. "Your life, too, is now at stake. You are most likely Glosfalath's next target, if Glosfalath is indeed behind this scheme. Elessar wants you to leave Minas Tirith and return to Dol Amroth until the culprit can be found, tried, and sentenced."

"I will not leave Faramir," said Elphir sternly.

Legolas smiled. "I was hoping that you would say that."

"If Elessar is so sure that it's Glosfalath, then why are we waiting?" asked Elboron. "He's right here, in this tower! All we have to do is find him, and we can make him suffer for what he's done!"

"Again I will say that it is not as easy as that," said Legolas. "Glosfalath is the Lord of Anfalas and not a man to be trifled with. If he is powerful enough to have the means to hire an assassin and make an attempt on Faramir's life, then he cannot be dealt with like an errant child. I cannot stress enough the importance of delicacy and subtlety in our task, Elboron."

"This is ridiculous! Glosfalath is responsible, so he should be brought to trial! The longer we wait, the more time he will have to sit happily right beneath our noses and gloat over his triumph! What if he _does _try to kill Elphir?"

"The Knights of the Swan are my personal bodyguards, and they are very loyal to me," said Elphir solemnly. "I am not concerned for my well-being. I am more than prepared to deal with this threat."

"What if my father dies?" cried Elboron.

"Elboron, whether we discover the culprit or not, your father may die," said Legolas softly. "Faramir is very sick. The King is with him now. I have just come from the Houses of Healing. They are doing all that they can for him. The choice now lies in his hands."

"You cannot be serious!" said Elboron. "You can't leave the choice to him! He's insane!"

"Elboron!" exclaimed Elphir, appalled.

"He has been insane ever since Mother died," said Elboron, his face set stonily. "He's just less insane at some times than at others."

"It is no longer our decision, Elboron," said Legolas. "The choice is Faramir's, whether we want it to be or not."

Elboron's eyes flickered to the floor, the shadow of something like grief passing across his face. At last, he looked back up at Legolas and Elphir, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears.

"Then he is already dead."

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Authors's Note: Yay! I updated! Hehehe. I really, really hope you guys like this chapter! For those of you who read both this story and "Lost Tales of My Father", I am most eager to know if Elboron's personality in this chapter matches the personality I've given him in his later life. Please let me know what you think of his personality if you review! Thanks for your continued support, _mellyn nin_! I know I've been frustratingly slow with updates lately! _Namarië_! - Minyasta 


	10. ‘We are none of us ready…’

Author's Note: Well, lindahoyland, I believe you hoped to see more of Aragorn and Faramir. Here you go, _mellon nin_. - Minyasta

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Chapter X – 'We are none of us ready…'

Faramir's condition took a sudden turn for the worse. What little health he had clung to before deteriorated rapidly. Even in sleep, he was in constant pain unless the healers administered medicine. And he did not awaken.

Aragorn himself had taken Faramir under his charge and spent all of his time filling the room with gentle aromas, murmuring soft words with his hand upon Faramir's brow, and stroking the sweat from his friend's face. He was doing everything within his power to nurse Faramir back to health, sparing hardly any time for his duties, but nothing he did could ease the pinched look of pain on his friend's pale face.

Faramir wheezed fitfully, and Aragorn leaned over him in concern. Murmuring hushed Elvish, he laid his hand on Faramir's chest, the massage of his fingers easing the younger man's breathing temporarily. After a few moments of shallow breaths, though, Faramir was seized by another fit of gasping, and Aragorn's face grew taut with worry.

"_Shhh, hush, my dear friend_," he whispered in soft Sindarin, trailing his hand to feel the pulse at Faramir's neck. Rapid and irregular. Unhealthy. Faramir was fading. "_Come back to us, Faramir… Come back to us… Please…_" Aragorn closed his eyes, Faramir's hand cupped in his own. "_Please, I would not be parted from you yet…_"

Faramir was still. Wherever he was, it was no longer within the realm of reality. Aragorn laid a gentle hand on Faramir's brow and could sense nothing but confusion and pain. _Blood. Battle. Corpses. Stench. A dark figure. A knife in the dark… A maiden in white…_

Aragorn pulled away slowly. So, it was true. It was Éowyn he was looking for…somewhere in the depths of his subconscious… He fought some battle with himself within his mind, while his face grew more and more wan with each passing day…

The King bowed his head and held tightly to his Steward's cold hand. "_Mellon nin_," he murmured, grief such as he had never known before suddenly overwhelming him. "Please… We need you here… We need you, Faramir…"

As Aragorn closed his eyes, his mind wandered back over the long years that had passed since he had first met Faramir… He still remembered the first time they had held conversation with one another, following the initial meeting in the Houses of Healing when Aragorn had saved Faramir's life. He recalled his surprise upon meeting Boromir's little brother, so unlike the elder that it was almost impossible to imagine that they could have been sired by the same man. He remembered seeing the intelligence behind Faramir's eyes, the dignity, the gentle nobleness that was akin to that of the ancient men of Númenor. He remembered the man he had met then, quiet, studious, and self-deprecating—the man who had kept Gondor on its feet for so long with patience and steadiness through his father's vain folly…

----------------

_Aragorn came to the door of the library, pausing when he saw that it was already occupied. The young Steward named Faramir, hunched over a book, sat on the broad sill beneath the window in the far wall. He did not at first notice the King's presence, so Aragorn took the moment to observe the quiet young man. He was silent in his work, scribbling down swift notes on scraps of paper that lay all about him. The book he held (balanced awkwardly against his arm sling) was one of many, all stacked beside him as though he had every intention of reading through each and every one of them. They were volumes of considerable weight, Aragorn noticed; the gold lettering on the spine of one read: _The History of Middle-Earth: Volume IV – The Second Age._ Another:_ The Account of the Founding of Minas Anor._ Yet another:_ The History of the Royal Bloodlines of Gondor._ Aragorn had intended to do a little research himself, perhaps smoke his pipe in peace without the aggravations of ceremony and spectacle, but he suddenly realized that he ought to get acquainted with the man he would work with for the duration of his—or, more likely, Faramir's—life._

_"A little light reading before supper?" asked Aragorn, raising an amused eyebrow._

_Faramir tensed in sudden alertness, his eyes swiveling to the door where Aragorn stood. Surprise flashed through the young man's eyes, and Faramir nearly leapt from the windowsill, knocking against his pile of books in his haste to trace a proper bow for the king. Of course, with one arm in a sling that was also very difficult._

_"Your Majesty," said Faramir quietly, his eyes humbly fixed on the floor. "I was not aware of your entry, Sire. Forgive me."_

_Aragorn waved away the formality carelessly. "Please, don't apologize. I should be the one apologizing. I did not mean to interrupt you at your studies…"_

_"It is no matter, my liege," Faramir murmured, gathered his notes and tucking them neatly into one of the books in the stack. "Is there something I can do for you?"_

_"Well, I was considering having a look into some of the records kept here, but since I see you've already claimed this little section of the Citadel I really do not wish to intrude…"_

_"Oh, no, you aren't intruding at all," Faramir insisted, attempting to shelve the several books that lay about the windowsill. "I'll put everything back the way I found it… I'm here often enough… If you have need of the library, then I would be most privileged to—"_

_"Faramir."_

_The young man paused, stunned by the King's use of his first name._

_Aragorn smiled. "Please, sit down. I wish to speak with you for a brief while, if it is not too much trouble."_

_Faramir sat obediently at the table that stood in the center of the room, his back formally straight, his air one of deference and humility. Aragorn sat across from him and leaned back comfortably._

_"How is your arm faring?" he asked considerately._

_"It is well, Sire," said Faramir, adjusting the sling slightly. "The healers tell me that it will heal fully, but it will take time."_

_"And what of your illness?" asked Aragorn, his voice now deep with concern. "Has the shadow of the Black Breath truly left you?"_

_Faramir bowed his head. "Thanks to your healing, my King," he said softly. "I feel no sickness in me now, unless it be weariness."_

_"Do you not sleep well?"_

_Faramir paused. "I have many matters to attend to, my liege. The work tires me, only because I have not fully recovered from my wound."_

_Aragorn was silent for a while, his gaze searching the young man's face for signs of dishonesty. He had been watching his Steward discreetly since his arrival at Minas Tirith, and he himself had arranged for Faramir to be kept constantly busy. That had been at Gandalf's urging._

_"You must keep him preoccupied with his duties," the old wizard had said. "Make sure that he is not given time enough to reflect on all that has befallen him of late. It is a memory too burdensome for a young man, and Faramir cannot afford to slip back into that darkness."_

_So Aragorn had kept him busy. Nonetheless, he often saw the Steward slip quietly away when there was a moment of peace between duties. He seemed to Aragorn to be continually distracted. He had moments of agitation when his focus slipped and he faltered in his crisp, formal manner of going about the duties of his office. Aragorn knew that Faramir had not yet had time to reconcile himself with his grief over the death of his father._

_"It occurred to me just now, as I happened upon you in repose in the window," Aragorn began again, smiling a little, "that I know nothing whatsoever of the man I will very soon call my Steward. What would you have me know of yourself, Faramir?"_

_Taken aback, Faramir hesitated. At last, his solemn eyes met the King's, and he said, "Well, Sire, I am not sure what to say. There is not much to know of me. I-I do read…on occasion…"_

_Aragorn eyed the stack of books and chuckled. "I had surmised as much."_

_Faramir flushed ever so slightly. "I'm not sure there's anything else to say, really… What would you know of me, your Majesty?"_

_Frowning a little to himself, Aragorn considered the question. "I suppose I'd really just like to know who you are." Faramir hesitated. "Perhaps it will help if I tell you a little about myself first. I was raised in Rivendell as the adopted son of Elrond, with his sons Elladan and Elrohir. My father had died in battle when I was very young. When I was twenty, I met and fell in love with the elf-maiden Arwen. I did not know it at the time, but she was Elrond's daughter. When I went to him…he was very much against the idea of any relationship between the two of us. I went off to fight abroad in Rohan and in Gondor… I served here under your grandfather, Ecthelion…"_

_"Thorongil."_

_Aragorn blinked._

_"Thorongil, that was your name…wasn't it?" asked Faramir, a glint of curiosity coming alive in his eye. "I have heard many tales of the heroic Thorongil. You served under Ecthelion, alongside my father." A weak smile came to Faramir's face, but it did not hide the sudden ache of pain that Aragorn could see behind his eyes or the sudden paling of his face._

_"Are you well, Lord Faramir?" asked Aragorn concernedly._

_Faramir looked away, and the grief in his eyes faded back to quiet composure. "Yes, your Majesty, I am well," he said softly, but he did not meet Aragorn's eyes as he spoke. "I must apologize if I appear diverted… It is only weariness, as I have said."_

_"Of course." Aragorn knew instinctively that Faramir was lying to him now, even if the young noble would not admit it. "And now you still must answer my question. What would you have me know of yourself?"_

_Faramir shifted uncomfortably, either from sudden pain in his injured shoulder or from unease at the question. "And still I know not how to answer, my liege," he said in a murmur. "I was born in Minas Tirith, my father's second son—but that you know already. My mother died when I was five years old. I became a soldier when I was thirteen. I've been Captain of the Ithilien Rangers for more than ten years now." He paused, wavered on the brink of speaking, and faltered._

_"What is it?" asked Aragorn gently._

_"Nothing, my liege," said Faramir hastily. "It is only…" His eyes flickered again to the floor, and he was silent for a long moment before continuing. "They tell me that you were with my brother when he died." Empty silence. "I just want to know…I want to know what really happened."_

_Aragorn sat up straighter in his chair, his face darkening with grief at the memories. The words he had spoken to Boromir that he wished he could take back. The words he had left unspoken that he should have said. The comradeship of allies in battle. That last, horrid day. The Ring. Frodo and Sam, Merry and Pippin. Everything, rushing back to him again. He could not make the memories go away. Though the Barad-dûr had fallen, still the recollection of the pain it had caused was seared into his mind._

_"Boromir died an honorable death," said Aragorn at last, slowly. "That is what I will say now, because I know what happened in the end. If you had asked me the same question before the battle at Amon Hen, my answer would not have been the same." He sighed deeply, massaging his temples as he sought words to explain to the dead man's brother what had transpired that day._

_"Gandalf told me that you encountered Frodo and Sam in Ithilien while you were there." Faramir nodded. Aragorn sighed again. "Then you will know what I mean when I say that the Ring was…a heavy trial…for all of us. I was able to resist its evil. Boromir, his heart more valiant than any ancient Gondorian warrior though it may have been, was ensnared by it. I do not question his motives. He wanted to save the White City, and against that I can pass no judgment. But the burden your father had placed upon him was too much. He lost his senses. He tried to take the Ring from Frodo by force, and Frodo fled from him. Sam followed. That is how they came to be together, without the rest of our company, when you met them in Ithilien._

_"But we were met on the shores of the Anduin by a horde of Orcs. The two younger hobbits, Merry and Pippin—Pippin you've met—went searching for Frodo and Sam after they left the company. Boromir came to me. He would not speak to me of what he had done, but I could surmise enough from his tone. I was…" Aragorn closed his eyes. "I was angry. I was furious. I told him to go, to find Merry and Pippin and protect them with his life. I could not speak more to him. I loathed him in that moment. He could have ruined everything for which we'd suffered along the long road to the Falls of Rauros._

_"It was during the fight that I heard his horn…" Aragorn shook his head. "I ran to him, hoping, praying that he was alive… I found him…pierced with many arrows…" Faramir flinched and looked away. "He told me then what he had done…that he had tried to take the Ring from Frodo… He told me that Merry and Pippin had been captured. He told me that he had failed them…had failed the people of Minas Tirith… He made me promise…he made me promise that I would not let the White City fall… And so I promised him. I could do nothing else to take back the harsh words I had spoken earlier." Aragorn lowered his head. "So passed Boromir, son of Denethor."_

_Faramir was silent, but Aragorn could feel the sorrow, the grief, and the pain emanating from his very presence. It suddenly occurred to Aragorn that this was a young man who had lost everything and everyone dear to him. His mother had died young, when he was only five. His brother had died in battle, on a mission of fate to destroy an evil that had tempted him too sorely. And his father had died in misery and madness, upon a flaming, suicidal pyre that had been meant for Faramir, too. There was a heaviness about Faramir that should not have been present in so young a man, a solemnity and a weariness that surpassed his years. Aragorn could see a bitterness, a hollow quality in Faramir's eyes, the mark of a man who has seen too many horrors upon the battlefield. And then there was a dejected air of self-doubt, the air of a man who had said with too much emphasis that he was his father's second-born son. Here was a man who had carried the burden of a nation on his back, who had suffered grievous hurts because of it, and who had probably never received thanks for it._

_"Faramir," said Aragorn softly at last. The young man looked up at him. "The memory of Boromir's death pains me still…but it did cause one change that I do not regret."_

_"What is that, your Majesty?"_

_Aragorn smiled. "It has made you my Steward, the Steward of Gondor and of Arnor, and so you shall be forevermore."_

_A weak but happy smile spread across Faramir's face, and he bowed his head. "It shall be my honor to serve you, King Elessar."_

_Aragorn's eyes glinted with contentedness. "And it shall be my honor to accept your service, Lord Faramir."_

----------------

Faramir's breathing had fallen to a ragged, halting rasp as the pain became too great for him to fight in his unconsciousness. The healers scurried around by the bedside, speaking in whispers, as Aragorn gently caressed Faramir's brow to get his body to relax. At last, the draught the healers had prepared was ready. Aragorn lifted the frail man into his arms and forced the drink past Faramir's pale lips. For a moment, as Faramir lay limp and lifeless against Aragorn, the King feared that the draught would not go down. He moved two fingers gently along Faramir's throat, and finally he saw him swallow. After a few minutes of exhausted, weak breathing, Faramir's heartbeat finally regulated itself with the help of the draught and his breathing eased.

Aragorn dismissed the healers and cradled Faramir in his arms for several minutes, ensuring that his Steward's breathing would not worsen again. He saw Faramir's eyes flickering rapidly beneath his closed eyelids, as though in a panicked dream. Aragorn touched his brow gently, struggling to ease the trouble in Faramir's mind, but in this, it seemed, he could no longer help his friend.

He could feel the tension in Faramir's body, the tightness of pain. He wished more than anything that he could take this burden upon himself rather than watch Faramir suffer. He did not know how much longer he could withstand this torment, watching and waiting for the outcome, praying for the best but all the while dreading the worst in the back of his mind.

There was another way. He had considered it often, as the days passed with no sign of improvement in Faramir. If it came down to it…Aragorn could administer medicines powerful enough to ease Faramir's pain forever. If it came to the point that Faramir was suffering needlessly, wracked by agony with no hope of recovery, then Aragorn could end it peacefully for his friend. He had already prepared a vial of the draught that would do it, keeping it locked safely in a chest in his rooms in case it was needed. He knew that it would torture him relentlessly to the end of his days to end Faramir's life, but he could not stand the thought of his Steward and his friend living in this unconsciousness for the rest of his long life, growing frailer and frailer, wasting away until there was nothing left of him that the pain had not consumed. If he had to, Aragorn would end it before it came to that. He would make himself end it, for Faramir's sake.

"_Mellon nin_," whispered Aragorn, gathering Faramir into his arms and rocking back and forth with him, as if there was nothing more than that he could try to do to end his friend's suffering. "_Would that I could take this ordeal from you… We are none of us ready to see you leave us yet, Faramir… We are none of us ready…_"

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_mellon nin_

(my friend)


	11. Into Shadow

Author's Note: Firstly—WOOHOO, TWO STORIES UPDATED IN ONE DAY!! :) Secondly, I apologize for this chapter being entirely in italics, but it was a necessary evil, as you shall see. (I just hope it doesn't totally kill your eyesight.) I hope you all enjoy this new chapter, and with any luck it will not be another year before you see another update! Haha. Thank you all for your loyalty, _mellyn nin_! - Minyasta

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Chapter XI – Into Shadow

_A maiden running down a tree-lined path… A white dress… Faramir raced after her, blood pounding in his ears. His hands were soaked crimson, and flowery veins of scarlet bloomed across his white tunic—the only reminders that he was, in fact, still alive. Agony wracked him from head to toe, and the bells, the tolling bells echoed ever more loudly in his mind. Was this even real? he asked himself wildly. Where was this dark forest in which he found himself, and how had he traveled so far from the Houses of Healing where he last had lain?_

"_Éowyn!" he cried out for the hundredth time, entreating her to slow her pace so that he might catch her. "Éowyn, come back to me! Please, hearken to my voice! Why do you run from me? Éowyn!" The memory of her from before the assassin's attack burned like a beacon of hope in his mind. How _real_ she had been. How her lips had gently caressing his own still… For that one, fleeting moment, he had had her back again. Her skin had met with his in physical contact. To retrieve her from the world beyond the living, then, was not impossible. It could not be impossible. He had to get her back into his arms…_

_Faramir stumbled and staggered in his weariness, feeling his strength draining with every step he took. Determinedly, he pushed against the reserves of his fortitude, ignoring the warning alarms going off in his head. He could not fail now. He could not allow himself to collapse. He had to keep going! How far had he wandered? He glanced behind him, back down the path he had trod, and could see nothing but a single, twisting route stretching for leagues and leagues across land, forests, and mountains. At the very beginning of the long path, he could still see a brilliant speck of a light that glowed like one of the Silmarils of lore. Suddenly, without knowing how he became aware of it, Faramir realized that the light was his own body in the Houses of Healing of Minas Tirith. Looking down at himself, he saw that his very skin shimmered with a silvery iridescence, a pale mimicry of his true physical self. This was a journey for his spirit alone._

"_Faramir…"_

_The Steward started, hearing a familiar voice calling his name from the path behind him._

"_Faramir…"_

_It was the voice of the King. Faramir stared hypnotically at the pulsing light that shone from the Houses of Healing, suddenly filled with an intense desire to return to himself, to awaken and forget this horrible pain. The voice beckoning him was warm and welcoming… Like a shore light beckoning to lost ships at sea… He could not defy the will of his liege…_

_Faramir clenched his fists and shook his head hard to dispel the entrancement that had come over him._

"_No," he mumbled firmly. "No. I will not turn back. Not this time." He glanced once more towards the light, hearing the voice calling his name again, this time more faintly. "I am sorry, Aragorn," he whispered. "I am sorry, _mellon nin_."_

_Pale and weak, Faramir raced on, his heart laboring to keep pace with his long stride. The only thing keeping him on his feet was the occasional fleeting glimpse of a maiden in white on the path ahead, just around the next corner, always just ahead of him. He would not lose her again!_

_Suddenly, Faramir was plunged into icy cold waters, and in his panic he gasped and inhaled a lungful of water. Pain shredded his chest and his mind, and he desperately clawed his way back to the surface, choking and drowning. At last he broke through the surface and heaved himself back onto the sandy shore, coughing up mouthfuls of salty water from his aching lungs. Wiping the water from his eyes, Faramir looked up to see a woman in a white dress disappearing into the mist out over the sea._

"_Éowyn!" he called after her._

"_Go back, Faramir!" said a voice echoing out of the mist. "You cannot follow me!"_

_Faramir leapt to his feet and dove into the pitching black waters, his muscles burning with pain as he swam desperately towards the sound of her voice. He could not let her disappear again! There was a way! There had to be a way!_

_As he swam on and on, he saw no more and heard no more of the white-clad maiden. A haze of exhaustion entered his mind, and his muscles locked and cramped before he had swum very far. It was too much for his fatigued spirit to handle. He simply could not keep up this kind of exertion in his weakened condition._

_But he swam on, refusing to turn back. Slowly, his strength gave out, his endurance completely failing him. He gasped a final, ragged breath before he sank again beneath the cold waves, this time too drained of vitality to resurface. He could feel his heartbeat growing fainter and fainter, his mind blacking out from lack of air, his lungs shot though with pain. He surrendered to the ocean, and it dragged him down into its depths… _Éowyn_…_

_**Well, well, what a strange sight is this, **__said a soft female voice in his ear. __**A Man of Endórë, so far from home! Why, what on earth are you doing? Swimming across Belegaer? That is strange indeed, very strange. I suppose I must help you. You are, after all, very brave for a Man.**_

_Faramir felt himself being lifted up through the water, and when he broke the surface he swallowed great heaving gasps of air as fast as his lungs could take them in. He had resurfaced beside a small rock in the middle of the ocean, and he clambered up onto it as best he could and lay there shivering._

_**There, there, **__cooed the same voice, now beside him. Faramir looked up to see a beautiful young woman bobbing in the water next to him, her smile soft and caring. __**You are going to be fine now. But tell me, young lord, why are you swimming across the Great Sea?**_

"_The Great Sea?" Faramir repeated, astonished. "Belegaer? How could I have wandered so far?"_

_**Whence come you? **__asked the woman, cheerful and friendly._

"_G-Gondor, my Lady," Faramir stammered._

_**Goodness! How very ridiculous of you! **__laughed the woman. __**Who would have thought! A lord of Gondor, here in Belegaer! Well, that **_**is**_** very strange!**_

"_I-I must follow her," Faramir rasped painfully. "Have…Have you seen her?"_

_The woman cocked her head to one side curiously. __**Seen who?**_

"_A young woman…dressed in white… I saw her pass over the waves, through the mist," said Faramir. "Please, can you tell me how to follow her?"_

_**I am sorry, **__said the woman, __**but I do not know who you mean. I have seen no young woman dressed in white pass this way. Yet perhaps my spouse will know better than I…**_

_As if on cue, a young man emerged from the chill waters beside the woman, his hair sleek and long, his raiment made of seaweed and barnacles._

_**Lord Faramir! **__cried the man, sounding delighted. __**What a surprise! To think that I should find you here, so far from Gondor!**_

_Faramir paused in shock, still laboring to catch his breath. "Wh-Who are you?" he asked. "How do you know my…my name?"_

_The man and the woman laughed together, and it was a sound like peeling bells._

_**I, Faramir, am Ossë, the Maia of the Sea and chief servant of Ulmo. **__The man bowed his head reverently. __**My spouse is Uinen. I do not easily forget young men who find as great a thrill in the sea as you do. Though perhaps you have forgotten your youth, not too long ago, in Dol Amroth where your mother was born on the shore. How I would laugh when you fell into the water while you were out sailing with your uncle!**_

_Faramir's eyes widened as he beheld the pair. "You…You cannot be…"_

_**Aye, we are, **__said Uinen gently, sounding amused. __**See how surprised he is, Ossë, when we ourselves should be the more shocked for finding him attempting to swim across Belegaer in search of a young lady in white!**_

_**Is that so? **__asked Ossë, frowning._

"_Yes," said Faramir shakily. "Please…do you know where I can find her? It is…it is the Lady Éowyn I seek."_

_**Ah, **__said the Maia Ossë, his frown deepening. __**That is difficult indeed to answer. I know whither she has gone, but to send you there would be to send you into the Blessed Realm itself. That power I have not. Should the Valar find you there, you would be punished for it.**_

"_I care not for what my punishment must be," said Faramir, his grief rising in unshed tears. "I no longer care for the world. Should I be forced to remain there forever, I should not care."_

_Ossë and Uinen exchanged a concerned glance, and Ossë at last looked back to Faramir. __**Very well,**__ he said. __**I taught the art of shipbuilding to the Teleri, and now I will give this gift to you. **__At his words, a small craft arose from the depths of the sea and slid alongside Faramir's rock. __**Should my Lord Ulmo come upon you, give him my name, and he will allow you to pass. I give you my blessing, Lord Faramir, but I can make no promises as to the blessing of the Holy Ones. They will pass judgment as they see fit. May the stars shine upon you, and may we meet once again, should you return to Endórë.**_

_Faramir watched in awe as the pair of Maiar breached gracefully, and he saw that their lower bodies were those of fish or some other aquatic creatures, with scales glittering in the low sunlight. With a splash, they were gone, and Faramir was left alone with the boat. He steadied the craft against the rock and climbed inside, and after only a few oar strokes a swift breeze filled the sail and propelled him westward towards the Blessed Realm. Faramir looked back, where the shores of Middle-Earth were still just barely in sight._

_This was his last chance to go back. Ossë's words had unnerved him. The tale of Ëarendil returned to him—of how the mariner had sailed with his love to the Blessed Realm and had been forbidden from ever returning to Middle-Earth because he was a mortal. Instead, he had been fashioned into a star to light the night sky…_

_Faramir lay on his back in the boat, exhausted, and his eyes swallowed up the sight of the dome of constellations above him before they closed in pained sleep. The boat carried him deep into the mists, and the despairing voice of the King that still echoed over the waters carrying his name was lost._

_:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:_

_It was just past dawn when Faramir woke. His little boat had anchored itself on the shores of a sandy beach that passed up an incline into beautiful, emerald grass blooming with spring flowers and canopied trees. The sun, he was shocked to realize, had risen not behind him but in front of him, beyond the incline of the shore. He had landed not on the eastern shore but on the western shore of this strange land. How could that be?_

_Faramir stood, feeling the ache and the throbbing pain of his weariness hit him full-force again. He collapsed to his knees, gasping and clutching his bloodstained tunic. It felt as though the assassin's knife had been freshly thrust through his shoulder, tearing apart muscle and sinew. Steeling himself, he rose shakily to his feet once more and steadied himself against the side of the craft before stepping out onto the pebbled beach. He rested there beneath the overspread of a tree, too weak to attempt the incline directly. At last he managed to climb over the hill with strained effort, and what he saw then shocked him beyond words._

_He was staring out over the vast, green expanse of Valinor. In the distance, he saw soaring mountains, the Pelóri of legend, and among them a gigantic peak, the summit of Taniquetil where stood the High Halls of the Lord of the Valar and Elbereth Gilthoniel. Beneath these peaks lay beautiful, flowing streams, enchanted woodlands and hillocks, rolling plains of brilliant perfection, orchards and lakes and fields. One great mound stood above them all—Ezellohar, the Mound of the Two Trees of ancient lore._

_On a ridge near where he stood was settled a large stone castle, its grandeur and size surpassing even that of Minas Tirith. As his eyes passed over the sight, a flash of white caught the corner of his eye. He turned with a gasp to see Éowyn, his beautiful Éowyn, standing not two meters away from him._

"_Oh, Eru," Éowyn murmured, tears streaking down her face. "Faramir… What have you done?"_

"_Éowyn," said Faramir breathlessly. "My Éowyn… Is it really you?"_

"_Faramir," she said, weeping, "you cannot be here!"_

"_But I _am_ here." Faramir thought his heart would burst with joy. Her face…her beautiful face… It was finally to be his once more. "I have come for you, my Lady, my love, my darling Éowyn. I have found you at last!" Tears threatened to spill over in his own eyes, and he took a halting step forward._

"_Oh, Éowyn…" he whispered. "How long have I waited for this moment…" He choked on his grief and his happiness all at once, swallowing a hot flood of tears. "Where have you been? Why did you not come to me? Oh, Eru, I have missed you so much…" He reached out to caress her cheek, but at the last second she jerked her head away and ran frantically across the grass towards the castle._

"_Éowyn!" cried Faramir, stumbling after her. She did not slow, and Faramir pursued her to the gates of the castle where he stood beneath the teeth of its portcullis and gasped for breath. She had disappeared within. Faramir did not understand! Why did she run from him? Was she not happy to see him? Had she forgotten him so quickly while he was left to suffer with his grief? Why did the Valar punish him so?_

"_Go back, Faramir!" cried her voice from within. "You cannot be here! Go back now, while you can!"_

_Faramir hesitated, swaying on his feet, and plunged into the castle depths. Unbeknownst to him, the speck of light that lay at the beginning of his journey, marking the place where his physical being rested, suddenly dimmed, wavered, and flickered out._

* * *

_mellon nin_

(my friend)

Endórë

(Middle-Earth)

Belegaer

(the Great Sea)

Teleri

("Last-comers_"_ or "Hindmost_"_ – third host of Elves to journey west to Beleriand)


	12. Vanwa

Chapter XII – Vanwa

Éomer, King of the Riddermark, pulled gently at his mount's reins as the glistening white towers of Minas Tirith rose into view over the distant hills of the rolling Gondorian plains. Four months it had been since last he had looked upon this city's walls. Four months since he had stood over the grave of his sister and bid farewell to the husband she had left behind. Now again it was with grievous cause that Éomer rode to Gondor. Would this country not cease to cause him hurt?

The road from Edoras was long and hard, but Éomer had ridden it with only two bodyguards, the burden of a train of escorts being undesirable for as urgent a mission as this. Less than a fortnight prior, he had been summoned to the court of Minas Tirith by Aragorn himself, and swiftly had he ridden out from his hall in response to the letter. With light packs and fast steeds, he and his bodyguards had made excellent time crossing the countryside, and now at last they had reached their destination.

Several more hours of easy riding saw them to the wide gates of Minas Tirith, and with a claxon herald of the Tower's silver trumpets, the doors of the city swung wide to admit King Éomer and his companions. The capital of the proud nation was uncharacteristically solemn and quiet, however, and Éomer noted with concern the bowed heads and dark silence of the Gondorian folk as they went about their daily business in the streets.

"I have never seen the city so subdued," murmured one of Éomer's guards, as though sensing his King's thoughts. "What has put them so out of spirits?"

Éomer turned towards the guard who had spoken, who was none other than his own son, Elfwine. "Your uncle Faramir is popular and well-loved among his people, and if what King Elessar wrote me is true, then they fear now for his doom. Come—we have little time to waste."

Elfwine cast a sidelong glance towards the other guardsman, Déorthain, who only nodded encouragingly to the young lad and nudged his mount forward to follow the King's. Déorthain himself knew but little of these great men in whose shadow he served; he was too young to have fought in the Battle of the Pelennor all those summers ago before the fall of the Barad-dûr. But he had heard in his time visiting Minas Tirith of the mercy and wisdom of the Lord Faramir, and if King Éomer had judged the man a fair husband for his own sister, the proud shieldmaiden Éowyn, then Déorthain had to believe that the judgment was true.

The trio of riders soon reached the pinnacle of the White City, atop the seventh circle that stood seven hundred feet above the plain below, where the White Tree stood stark and naked against the harried spring breeze. Éomer, Elfwine, and Déorthain saw first to their mounts in the stables of the lower circle, settling them with fresh water and good feed, before making their way up the winding stairway of stone that brought them to the flag-draped uppermost level of Minas Tirith.

By the time they reached the Citadel, Aragorn had heard of the arrival of the travelers from Rohan, and he met them at the doors of his personal residence with a face that was perhaps more grim than welcoming.

"Éomer," he said, stretching out a hand to his old comrade in arms. "Glad am I that you have come so soon, for I cannot judge how much time Faramir has left in him. He is fading quickly—all too quickly, I fear."

"What evil has been cast upon this family, I do not know," Éomer said in a hushed voice, making against his chest the symbol to guard against devils and other foul things. "My dear sister lays hardly cold in her grave, and now my brother-in-law seems to be on her heels at the doors of death."

A strange emotion flickered behind Aragorn's wizened grey eyes, and he replied, "You know not how true your words are, my friend." He stepped back to allow the three entrance to his living chamber, where a number of soft couches were arrayed around a center table where food and drink was laid out for the travelers. Éomer took a seat upon the nearest couch, with Elfwine at his elbow, while Déorthain stood behind his lords, hands clasped comfortably behind his back.

Recognition registered in Aragorn's expression as he gazed at the boy seated beside Éomer, and his smile grew warm. "Elfwine? I almost did not recognize you, for how you have grown! You do your father's likeness proud."

"Thank you, Sire," Elfwine replied easily, evidently pleased with the comparison between himself and Éomer.

"How old are you this year?"

"I will be fifteen in another month, my Lord."

Aragorn nodded. "You grow into your armor well, and I've no doubt that you will serve aptly as a rider of the Mark."

At that moment, Éomer turned to see the door of the royal apartments opening once more to admit a spry lad only a few years older than his own son. Fair of hair and blue of eye, the lad was none other than his sister-son, Elboron. Dark was the emotion behind Elboron's stern gaze, and heavy was his bearing, in stature akin indeed to the Men of Rohan.

"You asked for me?" Elboron said, bowing slightly towards Aragorn as his eyes swept warily over the other three occupants of the room. Aragorn watched as the wave of renewed grief surfaced in Elboron's expression upon seeing his death mother's brother before him.

"King Éomer and his son are visiting Minas Tirith on business," Aragorn replied with a polite gesture towards the guests. "I was hoping you might show Elfwine around the city and entertain him while he is here."

Elboron frowned dubiously as he looked over the younger Elfwine, whose eager face and obvious kindhearted disposition won him over despite his reservations. "Very well," he said at last. "Come on, then." Elfwine beamed as he all but bounded from his seat to trail after his cousin. "How old are you again?" Elboron asked, surprised and amused by the boy's enthusiasm.

"I'm nearly fifteen," Elfwine told him confidently.

Closing the outer door behind them, Elboron nodded. "Good. You'll enjoy meeting the boys from my company, then…"

Éomer watched the pair leave, and then turned to Déorthain, saying, "Take the rest of the day off, as it suits you. Just be sure to have my horse saddled by sundown for my evening ride." The guardsman bowed and promptly exited, recognizing his lord's dismissal. Once they were alone, Éomer faced Aragorn and asked in a voice tinged with sorrow, "How much time do you think Faramir has?"

"Not as much as he needs," Aragorn answered. "He grows weaker day by day, and even my healing arts have not been able to call him back this time. But Faramir's health is not all that has brought you hither," he continued, and now his voice was low and strange-sounding, as though with uncertainty.

"What else, then?" asked Éomer, surprised. "Some new evil?"

"Perhaps it is evil indeed, though I know not. I have reason to believe that Faramir is looking for Éowyn. That he is searching for her spirit in the dreamworld of his own mind."

Éomer, the warrior who had faced down goblins and Uruk-hai and trolls alike, had grown suddenly pale at the mention of his dear sister's name. "Is that possible?" he asked, stammering in his confusion. "Do you mean that he might actually _find _her? What do you mean _dreamworld_? Can he bring her back?"

"No," said Aragorn firmly, though his eyes were soft with compassion. "No, he cannot return Éowyn to the realm of the living. Her time has ended, and she must pass on now to the Halls of Mandos to receive her judgment. But the possibility that Faramir may find her there is very real indeed."

"What does that mean?"

"I do not know," Aragorn replied honestly, sounding tired. "No one has ever managed to immerse themselves so deeply in the world of dreams and emerged again, as far as I know. It is a dangerous realm for Faramir to be toying with, and I have no idea what may befall him if he is successful in his quest—or if he is unsuccessful."

"Again, you talk of dreams. What do you mean by this?" asked Éomer, struggling with the concept that the dead might be alive still, spiritually at least, in some distant intangible place.

"Faramir has the gift of foresight," Aragorn explained. "He has had it since childhood. Recently, just after Éowyn's death, I discovered that he is capable of using this gift to see the dead, sometimes very clearly, even to speak with them."

Éomer swallowed a hard knot in his suddenly dry throat. "Has he spoken with Éowyn?"

"Yes. Or so he claims. And I believe him."

Éomer leaned forwards in his chair, his face paler than ever, his eyes wide. "What did she say to him?"

"That is not relevant," said Aragorn sharply. "The point I am trying to make is that living in this world of haunting spirits is what has deteriorated Faramir's health. I pray you not make the same mistake as my Steward and presume that you can alter the decisions laid out by fate. It will only hasten an end more bitter still. Look you at Elboron. First by unforeseen tragedy he lost his mother, and now as a result of Faramir's attempt to undo what has already been done, he may be about to lose his father."

Disturbed by the harshness of Aragorn's reprimand and the very idea of dealing with spirits from the grave, Éomer stroked his bearded chin thoughtfully and said, "What you're saying is that there is nothing we can do."

"Unfortunately…yes."

"Does Elboron know all of this?"

"No. He is still too young to understand," said Aragorn, his eyes full of pity for the boy he looked upon almost as his own son. "He knows only that Faramir has fallen into a state of sleep as a result of his injuries, and that the healers are unsure of how soon he will pull himself out of it."

"His injuries?" Éomer frowned. So much had not been explained, and with each further detail the image he was given of Faramir's condition looked grimmer still. "What injuries?"

Aragorn sighed and poured a glass of wine for each of them. "Perhaps you had better have a drink. I did not put this in the letter I sent you because I did not want to alarm you. An attempt was made not too long ago on Faramir's life."

"_What?_" thundered Éomer, rising from the couch in sudden wrath. "Someone tried to _kill_ my sister's widower? Tried to kill the Steward of Gondor? What sort of monster is responsible for this?"

"We do not know. It is an ongoing investigation…but we have our suspects." Aragorn's hands subconsciously clenched themselves into fists where they rested on the arms of his chair. "Legolas and Elphir are helping to root out the source, but so far they have found no incontestable proof."

"In the name of Éowyn's honor, I demand that the culprit be found," Éomer growled, unusually commanding in the presence of a greater King. "I will not have my family disgraced by a masked killer too cowardly to make a challenge in broad daylight."

"I assure you, we are doing all that we can." Aragorn overlooked Éomer's inappropriate exercise of his authority, knowing that the Rohirrim was stirred quickly to passion by any threat to his family. "I will personally see to it that the man is brought to justice. Unfortunately, as usual Elboron has jumped in headfirst like the impulsive boy he is and jeopardized everything."

"Perhaps Elboron should come to Edoras for a time," Éomer suggested, his head cooling with Aragorn's reassuring words. "He and Elfwine seem to get along well, and it might do him some good to get away from the tragedy that has befallen his family here."

"True," Aragorn admitted, "but I doubt that you will persuade him to agree to such a sojourn. Elboron has dedicated himself vehemently to finding his father's would-be murderer, and distracting him for even a short amount of time has been no easy task. It is a wonder that he agreed to entertain Elfwine during our meeting."

"Then it should not be made an option," said Éomer. "Elboron _will _come to Edoras with me upon my return. Once he is at my court, I am sure that he will find plenty to distract him. Rohan offers much appeal for young boys his age."

Aragorn nodded. "Very well. I will inform him after we conclude our meeting. He will object, but if you have Elfwine convince him that it is a good idea, he may give in more willingly."

Éomer's face darkened suddenly. "Before we do conclude our meeting…I would like to see my brother-in-law."

"Of course. Come with me, I will take you to the Houses of Healing directly."

The path that led from the Citadel to the Houses of Healing was one that had been well worn by Aragorn's boots of late. As they walked the length of the sixth level, the two Kings were met by reverent but cheerless hails of greeting. How Aragorn grieved to see the misery and sorrow of his people. While Faramir lay abed, wandering within his mind, the White City did not fare well.

The old stone walls of the Healing Houses were covered in crawling vines, and the flowers that had begun to bloom there with the coming of a warm spring had been killed in the last chill morning frost. Within the halls themselves, there was not a sound to be heard—no midwives bustling about their morning duties, no young journeyman calling out lessons to the apprentices, no chatter of daily gossip, no peaceful babble of the courtyard fountain.

Something was very wrong.

Aragorn and Éomer moved slowly through the corridors of the Houses, making their way towards the injuries ward where they were met at the door by none other than the Warden himself. Grey was the old man's face, and taut as if with pain. Aragorn saw the redness of his eyes and the streaks that fresh tears had left upon his ruddy cheeks. Upon noticing the Kings, the Warden's face grew more ashen still, and put one hand over his heart as though it gave him some pain.

"We are here to see the Lord Faramir," Aragorn said, feeling his own heart pounding noisily in his chest. "Is there some problem, Warden?"

The Warden gave a tremulous cry and covered his face. "My Lords, forgive me… Prince Faramir…"

Éomer's breath hitched painfully, but his eyes were wild and fierce as he stepped forward as though to seize the Warden's tunic. Fear was not often to be heard in the voice of the King of Rohan, yet it was there now when he demanded, "Yes? What about him?"

"…He no longer lives, your Majesties. He passed away just before you arrived."

* * *

_Vanwa_

(Lost)


End file.
